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shall  be  recoverable  by  action  of  debt  before  any  Justice  of  the 
;e  or  Court  having  jurisdiction  of  the  same,  in  the  name  of  the 
pie  of  the  State  of  California,  for  the  use  of  the  State  Library, 
in  all  such  trials,  the  entries  of  the  Librarian,  to  be  made  as 
inbefore  described,  shall  be  evidence  of  the  delivery  of  the  book 
3oks,  and  of  the  dates  thereof.;  and  it  shall  be  his  duty  to  carry 
provisionB-ol  this  Act  into  execution,  and  sue  lor  all  injuries 
■  to  the  Library ,  and  for  all  penalties  under  this  Act. 


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SOWING  AND  REAPING; 


OR. 


WHAT  WILL  COME  OF  IT. 


BY  MARY  HO  WITT. 


AUTHOR    OF    "STRIVE    AND   THRIVE,"    "  HOPE    ON  !    HOPE    EVEfcf 
ETC     ETC. 


NEW-YORK : 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 


34G  &.  3+S  BROADWAY. 

MDCCCLV1I. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PAOfc 

I.  A  Character      .          1 

II.  A  Removal 8 

III.  Stanton-Combe  and  its  Inhabitants       ...  16 

IV.  Sowing 32 

V.  A  Chapter  of  Troubles        41 

VI.  Threatened  Ejectment 49 

VII.  A  Real  Ejectment GO 

VIII.  Family  Affairs 67 

IX.  The  Funeral 83 

X.  The  Breaking  up  of  a  Family 102 

XI.  The  Great  Sale  by  Auction 108 

XII.  An  Unlooked  for  Event 117 

XIII.  Life  in  London 123 

XIV.  Reaping 13(5 

XV.  Reaping,  Continued            157 

Conclusion 16i> 


*3>  <LJ  f&i  J?  «  J  O 


SOWING  AND  REAPING; 


WHAT  WILL  COME   OF  IT, 


CHAPTER   I. 


A    CHARACTER. 


Sixty  years  ago,  a  tall,  gloomy  house,  of  a  very 
dingy,  unpromising  aspect,  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
was  inhabited  by  Thomas  Durant,  one  of  the  most 
sagacious  lawyers  of  the  day. 

By  birth  he  was  a  gentleman,  the  younger  son 
of  the  Durants  of  Stanton-Combe,  an  old,  though 
decayed  family,  in  the  county  of  Durham.  The 
family  estate  was  greatly  encumbered  by  debts 
and  mortgages,  and,  owing  to  the  sudden  death  of 
his  father,  he  was  left  unprovided  for.  Edward, 
the  elder  son,  took  all,  excepting  the  mother's 
jointure  of  three  thousand  pounds.  The.  younger 
son  was  pennyhss;  and.  as  if  to  increase  his  dif- 
ficulties, had  been  bred  to  no  profession. 

In  talents  and  temper  the  young  men  were  as 
different  as  in  fortune.  The  elder  brother  was  of 
weak  mind,  and  with  that   pliant,  easy   temper 

1 


2  A    CHARACTER. 

which  is  frequently  its  accompaniment  ;  the 
younger  was  active  and  enterprising  in  mind, 
subtle  in  intellect,  and  by  temper,  resentful  and 
implacable.  He  seemed  naturally  made  to  rule, 
and  the  other  to  submit;  and  such  might  have 
been  their  fate,  had  not  the  elder,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  every  one,  when  the  period  of  mourning 
for  the  father  had  just  passed,  brought  home  a 
bride — a  haughty  country  beauty,  without  fortune, 
but  impatient  of  any  restraint,  and  perfectly  ca- 
pable, and  very  willing,  to  take  the  place  of  go- 
vernor. 

The  first  act  of  her  supremacy  was  to  hint  that 
the  absence  of  the  mother  was  desired  by  her,  and 
that  her  jointure  was  sufficient  for  a  widow  to  live 
retiredly  upon  ;  and,  furthermore,  that  it  was  her 
will  that  the  brother  should  choose  his  profession; 
to  enable  him  to  do  which,  she  presented  him  with 
a  few  hundred  pounds.  To  live  upon  her  join- 
ture is  what  a  widow  looks  forward  to,  therefore 
the  mother  said  little :  she  acquiesced  patiently 
Not  so  the  younger  son.  He  flung  back  the 
money  with  ineffable  disdain,  and  vowed  to  raise 
himself  to  wealth  and  power  by  his  own  unassisted 
efforts  ;  assuring  his  sister-in-law,  at  the  same  time, 
that  she  should  live  to  repent  the  day  in  which  she 
forced  him  thus  from  the  home  of  his  ancestors. 
It  is,  as  everybody  knows,  the  commonest  thing 
in  the  world  for  angry  people  to  utter  threats; 
therefore,  when  Mr.  Thomas  Durant  said  further, 
that  his  children  should  live  under  that  roof  when 
hers  were  beggars,  she  only  laughed,  and  thought 
no  more  of  it. 


A    CHARACTER  3 

Thomas  Durant  went  straight  to  London,  and 
commenced  his  career  by  writing  for  lawyers. 
To  London  his  mother  followed  him,  and  besought 
him  earnestly  to  share  the  home  she  was  still 
enabled  to  enjoy.  He,  however,  was  of  that 
resolute  temper  which,  when  once  fairly  in  the 
strife  against  difficulty,  has  a  pride  in  the  combat : 
he  repulsed  every  offer  of  assistance,  and  even 
every  expression  of  sympathy.  The  mother, 
nevertheless,  established  herself  near  him,  and, 
unable  to  force  assistance  upon  him,  or  to  wring 
from  him  either  affection  or  complaint,  satisfied 
herself  by  knowing  that  he  was  not  only  alive, 
but  able  to  keep  himself  above  want.  What, 
therefore, 'he  would  not  receive  from  her  in  her 
lifetime,  she  resolved  to  accumulate  for  him  at 
her  death ;  and  she  lived  long  enough,  practising 
every  possible  self-denial,  for  accumulation  to 
become  the  pleasure  of  her  life.  She  lived  a 
female  miser,  and  at  her  death  bequeathed  him 
near  five  thousand  pounds.  With  this  sum  he 
took  chambers,  and  commenced  the  study  of  the 
law,  under  more  prosperous  circumstances  than 
he  had  known  before. 

It  would  be  needless  to  go  through  the  suc- 
cession of  years  in  which  he  worked  his  upward 
way  in  society,  extending  his  personal  ambition 
as  lie  acquired  reputation  in  his  profession. 

In  his  fortieth  year  he  married,  and  his  mar- 
riage was  one  of  those  riddles  which  now  and 
then  occur  in  social  life,  and  would  defy  an 
Edipus  to  solve.  His  wife  was  a  fair  young 
creature  with  a  few  thousands   to  her  fortune, 


A    CHARACTER. 


who  married,  as  many  another  woman  marries, 
for  a  home,  and  purchased,  in  so  doing,  certain 
misery  for  herself.  She,  and  one  sister,  were  the 
children  of  a  gentleman  who  died  young  in  India. 
They  were  brought  up  by  one  of  Mr.  Durant's 
clients,  in  whose  house  he  first  made  his  wife's 
acquaintance.  In  two  years'  time  the  other  sister 
married  also,  but  both  marriages  were  unfortunate ; 
the  sister's  husband  dying  in  the  West  Indies,  of 
the  yellow  fever,  within  the  first  twelve  months 
of  their  marriage.  The  only  consolation  in  Mrs. 
Durant's  case  was,  that  her  unhappiness  was  of 
short  duration.  In  three  years'  time  Mr.  Thomaa 
Durant  was  left  a  widower,  with  a  little  son.  The 
first  evidences  of  human  kindness  were  given 
towards  this  child ;  and  it  is  but  justice  to  the 
father  to  say,  that  every  possible  care  was  taken 
of  his  early  youth.  The  first  eight  years  of  his 
life  were  passed  in  the  country,  under  the  most 
experienced  and  judicious  care.  When  his  father 
brought  him  home,  it  seemed  requisite  to  have 
some  superior  female  in  the  family,  who  might 
undertake  the  charge  of  the  child,  and  also  make 
the  home  more  comfortable  for  his  sake. 

Mr.  Thomas  Durant  looked  round  upon  his 
female  acquaintance  to  find  such  a  one  as  he  re- 
quired ;  the  choice  seemed  as  difficult  to  make  as 
if  matrimony  had  again  been  his  object.  At 
length  he  bethought  himself  of  his  late  wife's 
sister.  He  had  proved  the  meekness  and  patience 
of  his  wife's  temper ;  he  had  seen  enough  of  her 
sister  to  believe  she  was  not  dissimilar ;  besides 
this,  she  had  been  unfortunate.    When  she  lost  her 


A    CHARACTER.  5 

husband  she  lost  also  the  bulk  of  her  property, 
and  was  reduced  now  to  a  meagre  income,  in  the 
midst  of  heartless  relations,  whom  he  knew  would 
but  little  relish  having  to  contribute  to  her  sup- 
port. She  would  not  be  over  nice,  nay,  he  thought 
she  would  be  humbly  thankful,  to  have  a  home 
offered  to  her.  He  was  right.  Some  things  the 
widow  wished  different;  but,  wearing  weeds  for  her 
husband,  a  little  daughter  to  provide  for,  and  re- 
lations, cold-visaged  as  creditors,  around  her,  she 
scarcely  hesitated.  Besides,  her  sister's  child  was 
dear  tb  her,  and  for  his  sake  she  was  willing  to 
concede  many  things.  Beyond  all  this,  Mr. 
Thomas  Durant  offered  a  remuneration  which 
would  not  only  make  her  independent,  but  enable 
her  to  make  yearly  savings.  Mrs.  Franklin, 
however,  for  such  was  her  name,  was  decided  at 
that  moment  by  a  letter  she  received  from  one  of 
her  kinsfolk,  a  cold  prudential  man,  who  had  been 
solicited  by  a  third  party,  unknown  to  her,  for 
assistance.  She  undertook  the  charge  of  her 
brother-in-law's  family  on  one  condition,  that  her 
little  daughter  resided  with  her.  Mr.  Thomas 
Durant  thought,  as  the  child  was  a  girl,  she  would 
be  easily  managed,  and  as  she  grew  up  might  be 
useful  in  the  house — perhaps  save  the  wages  of  a 
female  servant ;  and  he  consented. 

It  was,  as  we  have  said,  a  dreary  house  in 
which  he  lived ;  but  his  hard,  habitually  cold 
manners,  were  even  more  dreary  and  discourag- 
ing than  his  habitation.  Still  he  had  the  power 
of  assuming  a  smile  to  strangers,  with  a  plausibility 
of  manner,  and  smoothness  of  voice,  that  made 

b2 


6  A    CHARACTER. 

many  a  one  say  he  was  not  as  bad  as  his  charao 
ter.  But  to  those  from  whom  he  had  nothing  to 
gain,  or  whom  he  wished  to  keep  at  a  distance,  the 
insensibility  of  his  eye,  and  the  cold  indifference 
of  his  voice,  was  chilling  as  possible;  nay,  he 
absolutely  seemed  to  shut  his  senses  from  such,  as 
if  he  could  neither  hear  nor  see  them,  nor  could 
they  become  palpable  to  him. 

Towards  Mrs.  Franklin  his  manners  were  as 
cold  as  they  could  be,  within  the  verge  of  civility. 
Still  he  permitted  her  to  make  some  little  altera- 
tion in  his  domestic  establishment,  and  by  degrees 
the  general  aspect  of  the  place  was  made  more 
cheerful  and  comfortable.  His  own  tastes  and 
desires  in  return  were  studied  and  gratified.  His 
chair  was  placed  to  an  inch  where  he  liked  it  best 
his  slippers  and  gown  were  ready  for  him  before  he 
called  for  them;  but  he  repaid  none  of  these  little 
attentions  either  by  a  gratified  look,  or  an  ac- 
knowledgment «bf  satisfaction  ;  he  was  aware  of 
them,  however,  and  found  the  comfort  of  them,  and 
if  they  had  been  withheld  he  would  have  resented 
it.  He  was  one  of  the  unamiable,  with  whom 
there  can  be  no  interchange  of  good  offices. 

To  Alice,  Mrs.  Franklin's  daughter,  it  was  not 
known  that  he  had  ever  spoken  a  word.  His 
manners  had  repelled  her  as  a  child.  She  sa* 
with  him  and  her  mother  at  meals;  she  accom- 
panied them  in  his  coach  twice  every  Sunday  to 
church ;  for  he  made  great  profession  ot  religion, 
was  a  regular  attendant  on  its  ordinances,  and 
rigorously  required  the  same  from  all  those  about 
him.     She  had  sat  with  him  in  his  pew,  and,  as 


A    CHARACTER.  J 

she  grew  up,  had  taken  the  sacrament  at  the  same 
time  with  himself,  yet  he  no  more  appeared  to 
see  her  than  if  he  had  been  blind.  To  him  she 
was  a  nonentity — at  least  seemed  so.  She  tried 
to  persuade  herself  that  he  had  forgotten  her. 
She  wished  she  could  forget  him,  for  his  presence 
acted  like  a  torpedo  to  her  spirit. 

Thus  years  went  on ;  and  Mr.  Thomas  Du- 
rant's  professional  prospects  became  brighter  and 
brighter;  and  almost  to  his  own  surprise  he  found 
himself  one  of  the  first  lawyers  in  London.  The 
fairest  honours  of  the  profession  lay  before  him. 
He  was  honoured  by  the  Crown  with  a  baronetcy, 
and  was,  it  was  expected,  in  the  direct  road  to 
the  bench.  * 

Of  Sir  Thomas  Durant's  son  we  have  but  little 
at  present  to  say.*  At  twenty  he  promised,  in 
process  of  time,  to  make  a  lawyer  as  sagacious  as 
his  father ;  for  no  expense  had  been  spared  in  his 
professional  education,  and  at  that  age  he  left  home 
for  three  years'  travel  and  study  on  the  continent. 

Sir  Thomas  Durant,  full  of  schemes  for  his  own 
advantage,  always  suspected  others  of  the  same 
thing.  We  will  open  our  next  chapter  with  a 
proof  of  this  fact. 

*  The  reader  will  become  acquainted  with  him,  as  well 
•s  with  some  of  our  other  characters,  more  fully,  in  the 
•ecoad  part  of  this  story. 


8 


CHAPTER  II. 


A    REMOVAL. 


"  Sister  Franklin,"  said  Sir  Thomas  Durant, 
settling  himself  one  evening  in  his  easy  chair; 
"  Sister  Franklin,  your  daughter  is  a  very  pretty 
young  woman." 

There  were  two  things  in  these  few  words  that 
terrified  Mrs.  Franklin — the  subject  of  them,  and 
the  kindness  of  his  address  :  they  could  portend 
no  good. 

"  Your  daughter  is  a  well-grown,  and  passingly 
handsome  young  woman,  sister  Franklin.  What  is 
her  name?" 

"  Alice,"  replied  she. 

"  A  good  name  too,"  remarked  he.  "  I  used 
to  be  partial  to  the  name  of  Alice.  But  I  know 
not,  sister  Franklin,  why  she  should  avoid  me." 

"  She  is  timid,"  replied  she ;  "  but  I  am  glad 
you  like  her." 

"  Oh !  no,  no  !"  said  he,  "  I  have  no  particular 
ieason  to  like  her." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  observed  the  mother ; 
"  I  misunderstood  you." 

"  No  offence,  at  all,  sister  Franklin.  The  girl, 
I  say,  is  modest — has  a  neat  way  of  walking.  I 
used  to  think  a  deal  of  a  woman's  gait.  She  is 
modest,  too  :  how  old  may  she  be  ?" 

"  Eighteen,  last  January,"  replied  her  mother. 

"Eighteen!"  returned  he;  "upon  my  word, 
and  a  fine  young  woman  too.     You  are  looking 


A    REMOVAL.  9 

out  for  a  husband,  I  suppose  ?"  and  Sir  Thomas 
6miled. 

Mrs.  Franklin  laid  down  her  work  and  looked 
at  him,  wondering  what  all  this  tended  to. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  getting  her  married," 
replied  he. 

"  My  good  sir,"  said  she,  "  how  can  you  be  so 
absurd  ?" 

"  Absurd  !"  he  replied  ;  "  pray,  Mrs.  Franklin, 
what  was  your  sister's  age  when  I  married  her." 

"  Eighteen,"  replied  she,  and  again  took  up  her 
work. 

"  But  sister  Franklin,"  continued  he,  after  a 
few  moments'  pause,  "  I  am  serious  about  your 
daughter ;  young  women  are  never  so  well  off  as 
when  they  are  married  ;  do  you  deny  that  ?" 

"  By  no  means,"  was  her  reply.  "  A  woman's 
greatest  happiness  is  to  be  well  married — but  to 
be  well  married  implies  a  great  deal,  Sir  Thomas." 

"  A  fine  young  fellow,  with  seven  or  eight 
hundred  a-year,  you  would  call  a  good  match  for 
your  daughter." 

"  As  far  as  money  went,"  replied  Mrs.  Franklin  ; 
"but  I  consider  other  qualifications  even  more 
important  than  money." 

"  And  pray,"  asked  he,  "  what  other  qualifica- 
tions might  you  require?" 

"  High  moral  principle,"  said  she,  "  a  deep 
sense  of  religion  ;  and  I  should  like  to  know  what 
had  been  his  conduct  as  a  son  and  a  brother.  A 
man's  character,  or  a  woman's  either,  is  only  truly 
known  at  home." 

"  Humph  !"  said  Sir  Thomas,  and  then,  after  a 


10  A    REMOVAL. 

pause,  he  added,  "  I  should  not  object  to  give 
your  daughter  a  couple  of  hundreds  or  so,  to  buy 
wedding-clotlies." 

Mrs.  Franklin  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  for 
she  was  greatly  surprised. 

"  I  would  not  object,  I  say,  to  furnish  her  ward- 
robe, provided  she  married  to  please  me.  You 
would  trust  me,  sister  Franklin,  to  choose  her  a 
husband?" 

Mrs.  Franklin  could  not  divine  his  meaning; 
he  could  not  intend  to  recommend  his  own  son. 
She  was  puzzled.  "  I  owe  you,  Sir  Thomas," 
she  said,  "  my  sincerest  thanks ;  but,  indeed, 
I  have  no  thought  of  marrying  my  daughter  at 
present." 

"  Then  pray,  Mrs.  Franklin,"  asked  he,  "  what 
do  you  mean  to  do  with  her?" 

"  Upon  my  word,"  she  replied,  "  I  had  no 
thought  but  of  her  remaining  with  me  as  hereto- 
fore. Am  I  to  understand  that  you  do  not  wish 
it?" 

"  To  be  sure  not !"  was  the  reply. 

"  Will  you  explain  yourself  fully  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Franklin. 

"  Am  I,  Mrs.  Franklin,"  said  he,  in  great 
anger,  "  to  keep  a  girl  in  my  house  who  will  be 
plotting  and  scheming  how  she  may  marry  my 
son  ?  I  want  my  son  at  home,"  he  added,  "  but, 
so  long  as  that  girl  is  in  the  house,  he  shall  not 
enter  it !" 

"  I  will  answer  for  it,"  said  the  mother,  "  that 
she  will  not  entertain  such  an  idea." 

*   She  will!"  replied  he,  raising  his  voice  in 


A    REMOVAL.  1] 

extreme  anger  ;  "  and  I  tell  you,  once  for  all, 
Mrs.  Franklin,  ™at  my  son  shall  not  return  while 
that  girl  is  in  the  house  !" 

"  But,"  replied  she,  "  if  my  daughter  goes,  I 
go  also." 

"  Sister  Franklin,"  resumed  Sir  Thomas,  in  a 
voice  of  the  most  oily  placidity,  "  you  are  ovei 
ha.sty — it  is  the  way  with  women.  I  would  faiD 
see  your  daughter  well  married." 

"  My  daughter,"  returned  she,  "  will  not  marry 
at  present." 

"  Again,  my  dear  madam,"  said  he,  "  you  are 
over  hasty.  You  know  Mr.  Sharpie — my  friend 
as  I  may  say — Mr.  Anthony  Sharpie  ?" 

Mrs.  Franklin  lifted  up  her  hand  involuntarily, 
and  made  no  reply ;  and  Sir  Thomas  went  on — 
"  Mr.  Sliarple  is  an  excellent,  and  an  amazingly 
clever  young  man." 

"  Young !"  said  she ;  "  Mr.  Sharpie  must  be 
forty  at  least ;  my  daughter  is  but  eighteen." 

"  Mr.  Sharpie,"  pursued  Sir  Thomas,  without 
nothing  her  observation,  "  is  not  as  disagreeable 
to  your  daughter  as  I  am.  She  gives  him  her 
company  occasionally,  Mrs.  Franklin." 

"  Such  a  thing  shall  never  be  !"  exclaimed  she, 
with  indignation ;  "  my  daughter  shall  maintain 
herself  by  her  own  hard  labour — shall  die  unmar- 
ried, before  I  will  sacrifice  her  to  that  man  !" 

"  Hoity,  toity !"  interrupted  he;  "for  what 
shall  she  not  marry  Mr.  Sharpie  ?" 

"  Mr  Sharpie,"  replied  she,  with  perfect  calm- 
ness, "  is  a  man  for  whom  I  entertain  utter  con- 


12  A    REMOVAL 

tempt.  He  is  a  sharper  in  practice,  a  libertine  in 
morals,  an  infidel  in  religion  !" 

Sir  Thomas  grew  pale  with  anger.  "  I  know 
what  you  aim  at,"  said  he,  between  his  teeth.  "  I 
understand  you  ;  and  I  know  too  what  that  meek- 
faced  girl  aims  at !  Out  of  my  house,  and  see 
what  beggary  will  bring  you  to  !" 

"  Sir  Thomas,"  said  Mrs.  Franklin,  with  an 
unruffled  voice,   "  we  will  go!" 

"  Begone  !"  returned  he,  striking  his  fist  on  the 

table. 

Sir  Thomas  Durant  had  quite  overshot  his 
mark ;  for  to  part  with  Mrs.  Franklin,  his  well- 
managing  house-keeper,  was  the  last  thought  he 
would  have  had.  But  it  was  too  late  to  undo 
what  was  done ;  and  the  mother  and  daughter  left 
the  house  that  very  night,  and  were  received  with 
kind  welcome  under  the  roof  of  a  humble  friend. 
Here,  however,  they  did  not  remain  many  days. 
But  we  must  be  permitted  a  momentary  digres- 
sion. 

In  a  small  house  at  Richmond,  with  one  man 
and  maid  servant,  lived  Mr.  Nehemiah  Netley,  a 
retired  tradesman.  He  was  a  remarkably  small 
man,  and  had  been  a  dealer  in  gloves,  ribbons, 
lace,  and  ladies'  bonnets,  and  was_  as  dapper 
and  precise  in  his  person  as  if  he  had  just  stepped 
out  of  a  bandbox.  He  had  a  pink  complexion, 
and  hair  perfectly  white;  was  the  uncle  of  Mrs. 
Franklin,  and  an  old  bachelor,  of  course. 

Mr.  Netley  was  not  more  singular  in  appearance 
than  in  opinion,  always  contriving  to  think  differ- 


A    REMOVAL.  13 

ently  to  everybody  else.  How,  or  whether,  he  had 
maintained  the  integrity  of  his  opinions  with  equal 
pertinacity  when  he  haa  a  multitude  of  fair  cus- 
tomers to  please,  we  know  not ;  perhaps  he  was 
now  indemnifying  himself  for  former  self-denial. 
However  that  might  be,  he  had  quarrelled  with  a 
large  circle  of  nephews  and  nieces,  and  first  and 
second  cousins ;  yet  for  all  this  he  neglected  none 
of  them,  but  looked  in  upon  all  of  tnem  occasion- 
ally, as  he  passed  their  doors  in  his  walks ;  though 
he  declared  he  liked  none  of  them. 

When  his  nephew,  the  husband  of  Mrs.  Frank- 
lin, died  of  the  yellow  fever,  he  persisted  that  he 
must  have  been  imprudent ;  when  her  relations 
talked  of 'assisting  the  widow  and  her  child,  he 
opposed  the  project,  saying,  "  they  had  much 
better  assist  themselves."  When  everybody 
censured  Mrs.  Franklin  for  managing  the  esta- 
blishment of  Sir  Thomas  Durant,  he  said  she  had 
done  right;  and  yet  when  he  met  her  he  up- 
braided her  for  so  doing.  Accordingly,  when  he 
heard,  one  morning,  at  the  house  of  one  of  his 
nieces,  that  she  had  suddenly  left,  and  was  now 
without  a  home,  nor  would,  said  they,  ever  get 
the  arrears  of  money  Sir  Thomas  owed  her,  he 
called  them  "  a  set  of  cold-hearted  wretches," 
and  said  "  she  Mas  worth  them  all  put  together  !" 
and  as  he  repeated  this  to  himself  for  the  fourth 
time,  he  iripped  lightly  out  of  the  house,  and 
walked  more  briskly  than  common  on  his  way 
home. 

That  same  evening  a  hackney  coach  stopped  at 
the  house  where  Mrs.  Franklin  and  her  daughter 


14  A    REMOVAL. 

were  then  staying,  and  Mr.  Netley,  scarcely 
treading  heavier  than  a  child,  entered  the  room 
where  they  sate. 

"  Cousin  Franklin,"  he  began,  without  further 
salutation,  "  you  see  what  you  have  brought 
yourself  to  by  looking  for  wheaten  loaves  on  a 
burdock-bush  !"' 

"  I  am  not  surprised  by  my  situation,"  said  she. 

«  But  you  ought  to  be  surprised,"  returned  he , 
"I  should  have  been  much  better  pleased  if  you 
had  been  surprised,  t»r  then  you  would  have  been 
deceived,  and  I  should  have  pitied  you!  And 
pray  what  do  you  mean  to  do  now  ?" 

"  As  yet  I  have  not  decided,"  she  said. 

"  And  so  this  is  your  daughter,"  said  he,  look- 
ing towards  Alice;  "  pray,  whom  may  you  reckon 
her  like?" 

"  I  think  her  like  what  her  poor,  dear  father 
was,"  returned  Mrs.  Franklin,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Nonsense!"  said  the  old  man,  "not  a  bit. 
He  was  a  dark  man — black  hair,  and  dark  eyes ; 
she  is  very  like  me  !" 

Alice  coloured  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and 
certainly  increased  the  likeness,  if  there  were  any, 
and  her  mother  smiled. 

"  Well,  you  know,  Mrs.  Franklin,"  again  began 
Mr.  Netley,  after  a  minute's  pause,  "  at  least  a 
woman  of  your  good  sense  ought  to  know,  that 
everybody  should  maintain  themselves; — you  need 
not  answer; — and  that  they  should  be  as  little 
chargeable  to  their  acquaintances  as  may  be." 

"  Mrs.  Franklin  looked  distressed,  and  the  old 
gentleman  continued—"  I  don't  often  invite  my 


A    REMOVAL.  15 

relations  to  my  house — it  is  a  bad  habit — but  still 
I  choose  to  invite  you.  I  can  find  vou  something 
to  do." 

Mrs.  Franklin  felt,  that  under  her  relation's 
pertinacity  there  was  kindness,  and  she  accepted 
his  invitation.  They  were  soon,  therefore,  esta- 
blisned  at  Richmond ;  and  Alice  found,  that 
under  his  roof  she  could  give  way  to  the  buoyant 
gladness  of  her  heart  without  dread.  The  spring- 
time of  her  life  seemed  now  to  have  come;  and 
while  she  diffused  gladness  through  the  quiet 
house,  she  every  day  became  more  dear  to  its 
master. 

Before  we  close  this  chapter  we  must  say  a  word 
or  two  respecting  Mr.  Anthony  Sharpie.  He  was 
the  son  of  a  John  Sharpie,  who  held  the  steward- 
ship of  Stanton-Combe,  in  the  days  of  Sir 
Thomas's  father.  When  the  masculine  and  ma- 
naging lady,  who  had  dismissed  Sir  Thomas,  took 
upon  herself  the  conduct  of  affairs,  she  and  her 
steward  quarrelled.  He  made  his  complaint  to 
the  exiled  brother  in  London,  who  advised  him 
to  send  his  son  to  London  to  study  law,  and 
to  go  himself  back  to  Stanton-Combe,  and 
humble  himself  to  the  reigning  powers.  He  did 
so,  and  was  reinstated  ;  maintaining,  unknown  to 
his  mistress,  a  good  understanding  ever  after  with 
Sir  Thomas.  In  process  of  time  he  died,  but  no 
second  steward  filled  his  place,  and  his  son  An- 
thony, then  a  growing  solicitor  in  London,  was 
made  legal  adviser  and  confidant  of  the  lady  of 
Stanton-Combe.  He  was  the  devoted  creature  of 
his  patron,  and  not  only  by  possessing  the  con- 


16  STANTON-COMBE 

fidence  of  Mrs.  Durant,  but  through  his  yearly 
visits  to  the  hall,  could  impart  to  Sir  Thomas 
whatever  information  he  required.  We  shall  see 
hereafter  how  the  colleaguing  of  these  two  affected 
the  interests  of  the  family  at  Stanton-Combe. 

Such  was  the  Anthony  Sharpie  whom  Sir 
Thomas  Durant  designed  for  the  husband  of  the 
fair  Alice  Franklin. 


CHAPTER  III. 

STANTON-COMBE    AND  ITS  INHABITANTS. 

The  house  and  manor  of  Stanton-Combe  had 
been  in  the  family  of  the  Durants  from  the  time 
of  the  seventh  Henry.  The  acme  of  the  family 
splendour  was  in  the  reign  of  William  and  Mary, 
when  a  marriage  with  a  rich  city  heiress  enabled 
the  then  possessor,  Richard,  to  assume  a  greater 
style  of  living.  The  pictures  of  all  the  family,  by 
Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  and  Wissing,  bore  testimony  to 
the  liberal  expenditure  of  the  house,  as  well  from 
the  value  of  the  paintings  themselves,  as  from  the 
splendour  of  the  dress  and  jewels  both  of  men  and 
women.  Many  were  the  traditions  of  the  honour 
and  glory  of  those  days,  which  descended  like  rays 
of  light  through  the  darker  times  that  succeeded. 

From  those  splendid  days,  in  which  it  was  said 
that  the  very  stone  balustrades  of  the  garden- 
terrace  were  gilded— no  sign  of  good  taste  cer- 
tainly—the  troubles  and  embarrassments  of  the 
house  commenced.     The  city  heiress  left  five  sons 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS.  17 

and  nine  daughters  to  be  provided  for;  three  of 
whom  marrying  into  noble  families  of  small  estate, 
were  a  drain  upon  the  parent-wealth  ;  while  all 
the  others,  living  to  a  good  old  age,  kept  up,  as 
annuitants,  an  inexhaustible  claim.  At  the  end  of 
that  generation  they  were  but  little  the  better  for 
the  two  hundred  thousand  pounds  of  the  fair  Kitty 
Perkins ;  nay,  they  were  so  much  the  worse,  for 
they  had  acquired  habits  of  expensive  living. 
From  that  time  each  succeeding  generation 
found  itself  in  narrower  and  narrower  circum- 
stances. The  family  lived  upon  the  glory  that 
had  been.  The  furniture  of  the  house  grew  dim- 
mer and  dimmer ;  the  family  jewels  fewer  and 
fewer;  woo"ds  were  felled,  and  farms  sold,  till  at 
length  nothing  remained  which  was  not  strictly 
entailed — the  house  itself,  and  the  home  farm — 
and  even  upon  this,  the  father  of  Edward  and 
Thomas  Durant  had  taken  up  monev.  It  was 
said  that  his  embarrassed  circumstances  shortened 
his  days. 

Edward  Durant,  as  we  have  said,  married  a 
domineering,  high-spirited  dame.  She  had  been 
the  tyrant  of  her  father's  house ;  and  the  mild, 
pliant  temper  of  her  husband  yielded  to  her  with- 
out a  struggle.  The  first  six  months  of  her  wed- 
lock left  her  undivided  sovereign  over  house  and 
land,  man-servant  and  maid-servant,  ox  and  ass, 
and  everything  that  the  place  contained.  Her 
husband  wept  when  his  mother  and  brother  were 
60  summarily  dismissed  ;  but  he  kept  his  tears 
from  his  wife's  knowledge.  He  also  sent  sundry 
presents  of  game  and  fish  to  them  in  London,  for 

c  2 


18  STANTON-COMBE 

these  were  things  he  could  obtain  with  his  own 
hand.  They  were  always  unacknowledged,  it  is 
true,  but  his  kind  heart  was  not  discouraged,  and 
at  length  he  unfortunately  ventured  to  put  in  a 
turkey  also.  In  three  weeks'  time  this  hamper 
was  returned  with  its  unaccepted  contents,  and  a 
large  amount  of  carriage  to  pay.  Mrs.  Durant 
thus  discovered  her  husband's  offence — and  more, 
that  the  favourite  turkey,  which  was  supposed 
to  have  been  worried,  had  been  offered  to  his 
brother,  and  was  now  sent  back  with  a  cost  of  ten 
shillings  !  Poor  man  !  he  never  sent  turkeys  and 
game  again  to  London. 

Mrs.  Durant  was  not  only  masculine  in   her 
temper,  but  in  her  tastes  and  manners  also.     She 
could  rein  in  a  fiery  horse  whose  mettle  defied 
the  skill  of  a  groom ;  she  saddled  her  own  steed, 
and  mounted  it  with  the  agility  of  a  man,  and 
scoured    over  the    country  in   the  chase^  or  on 
business,    with    a    speed    and  horsemanship    that 
equalled  the  most  experienced  riders  of  the  other 
sex.     She  invariably  drove  the  carriage  in  which 
her  husband  rode,  after  the  first  two  months  of  their 
marriage ;  for  at  that  time,  as  they  were  passing 
one  evening  through  a  wood,  thej  were  beset  by 
robbers,  and  he,  it  was  said,  prayed  her  to  take 
the  reins.     The  lady  fired  off  her  pistols,  reloaded 
them  in   an  instant,  did  as  he  desired  her,  and 
never  aftei  wards  resigned  the  reins  into  his  hands  ; 
he,  good,  easy  man,  sitting  by  her  side,  willingly 
committing  himself  to  the  guidance  of  an  arm  as 
strong  as  his  own,  and  to  a  mind  much  stronger. 
The  carriage,  however,  soon  ceased  to  be  used  at 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS  19 

all;  horseback  was  much  more  suited  to  (be  lady's 
taste,  and  Mr.  Durant  himself  walked  on  foot. 
The  style  of  Mrs.  Durant's  person  was  in  perfect 
accordance  with  her  habits;  somewhat  above  the 
middle-size,  with  considerable  pretensions  to 
beauty,  even  when  her  youth  was  passed.  Her 
features  were  masculine,  but  finely  funned;  dark, 
keen  eyes ;  a  mouth  indicative  of  strong  charac- 
ter, with  teeth  rather  large,  but  beautifully  white 
and  regular;  a  clear,  but  dark  complexion,  well- 
pencilled  brows,  and  hair  black  and  glossy  as  the 
wing  of  the  eagle.  She  was  unquestionably  a 
fine  woman.  Her  dress  was  peculiar,  but  in 
character:  she  wore  her  hair  confined  in  a  black 
silk  net,  with  short  ringlets  on  her  temples,  small 
gold  rings  -in  her  ears,  to  which,  when  in  high 
costume,  were  suspended  immense  gold  pendants; 
invariably  a  blue  riding-habit,  worn  at  home  of  a 
walking  length.  When  she  went  out,  she  merely 
added  a  long  blue  cloth  riding-skirt,  with  a  black 
beaver  hat,  belted  with  a  gold  buckle,  to  which, 
when  intending  to  make  a  better  appearance  than 
ordinary,  she  added  a  small  black  feather.  Her 
feet  were  invariably  cased  in  strong  leather  boots 
and  she  was  known,  the  whole  country  over,  as 
"  Jack  Durant." 

Of  course,  such  a  person  as  we  have  described 
her  to  be,  did  not  hold  much  intercourse  with  the 
ladies  of  her  neighbourhood ;  they  regarded  her 
as  hardly  respectable ;  while  she  thought  of  them 
as  inferior  creatures — a  kino,  of  dolls  of  larger 
growth.     She  had,   however,  one  female  friend, 


20  STANTON-COMBE 

the  widow  of  Sir  Sampson  Thicknisse,  of  Starkey, 
in  Northumberland.  Lady  Thicknisse  was  a  stout, 
stately,  and  most  important  personage,  whose  hus- 
band, a  vehement  fox-hunter,  had  been,  in  his 
life-time,  a  great  admirer  of  Mrs.  Durant  and  her 
spirited  horsemanship.  About  the  time  of  her 
marriage,  Sir  Sampson  was  thrown  from  his  horse 
in  a  steeple-chase,  and  broke  his  neck.  He  left 
no  children,  and  the  estate  would  have  passed  to 
a  collateral  branch,  had  not  Lady  Thicknisse,  who 
reckoned  herself  skilled  in  law,  and  was  deep-read 
in  wills,  deeds,  and  settlements,  luckily  discovered 
certain  flaws  in  some  deed  or  title,  by  which  she 
held  the  next  heir  in  terrorem,  and  purchased, 
by  her  silence,  possession  of  the  estate  during 
her  life.  Such  was  Mrs.  Durant's  sole  female 
friend. 

A  very  different  person  to  her  was  the  smally 
portioned  maiden  sister  of  Sir  Sampson,  Mrs. 
Betty  Thicknisse,  several  years  the  senior  both  of 
her  brother  and  sister-in-law.  Where  Lady 
Thicknisse  wore  lace,  Mrs.  Betty  wore  lawn. 
The  satins,  and  gold  and  silver  brocades  of  Lady 
Thicknisse,  were  tabinets  and  ducapes  with  Mrs. 
Betty :  Mrs.  Betty  arranged  the  dinners  which 
the  other  ate,  and  got  up  her  lace  ruffles,  and 
made  up  her  lace  caps :  Mrs.  Betty  visited  the 
poor — Lady  Thicknisse  gave  away  beef  at  Christ- 
mas :  Mrs.  Betty  read  her  Bible  in  her  closet, 
and  Lady  Thicknisse  always  kept  hers  open  on  a 
stand  beside  her :  Lady  Thicknisse  was  the  dear 
friend  and  honoured  confident  and  councillor  of 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS.  21 

Mrs.  Durant ;  Mrs.  Betty  was  the  respected  ac- 
quaintance of  Mrs.  Durant's  husband.  That 
alone  implied  a  great  difference. 

For  many  years  Mrs.  Durant    did    not  seem 
likely  to  become  the  mother  of  a  living  child;  an 
event  which,  unmatronly  as  were  her  temper  and 
character,    caused  her  much  grief.      At  length, 
however,   a  son  was  born,  who,  unlike   his  little 
predecessors,  came  to  live.     Many  were  the  letters 
which  the  lady  of  Starkey  wrote  on  this  occasion, 
and  abundantly   splendid   were  the   offerings    of 
silver  panakin,  boat,  and  spoon  for  the  child,  and 
a  silver-gilt  caudle-cup  for  the    mother.      Lady 
Thicknisse   was,  of  course,  solicited  to  be  god- 
mother ;  ancT  accordingly  she  came  in  her  heavy 
coach-and-four,  bringing  with  her  the   christening 
cap  of  point-lace,  and  the  mantle  of  white  satin 
sprigged  with    silver,    together    with    a  hundred 
pounds,  in  an   embroidered  purse,  which  was  put 
into  the  child's  little  hands  with  his  god-mother's 
blessing.    It  was  a  grand  christening.    Such  a  chris- 
tening-feast as  that  had  never  been  held  at  Stan- 
ton-Combe  before — not  even  in  the  days  of  Kitty 
Perkins  and  her  fourteen  children.     The  boy  was 
named  Richard,  after  that  fortunate  ancestor ;  and 
when  the  god-mother  had  showered  her  bounty  on 
priest  and   nurse  likewise,  she  departed,  in    her 
heavy  coach-and-four,  leaving  a  long  and  bright 
memory,  like  a  streaming  glory,  behind  her. 

Mrs."  Durant's  heart  was  capable  of  the  most 
intense  affection,  as  was  proved  by  her  love,  and 
her  unwearied  care  and  attention  to  the  child. 
Nothing  less  than  such  care  afl  she  bestowed  upon 


22  STANTON-COMBE 

him  could  have  kept  him  alive;  for  the  first  many 
months  of  his  existence  were  marked  by  extreme 
feebleness.  Night  and  day  she  watched  over  him, 
getting  such  snatches  of  sleep  as  she  could,  and 
seeming  incapable  of  fatigue  while  caring  for  this 
beloved  being.  Her  affection  was  like  the  animal  s 
passion  for  its  young — an  absorbing  sentiment ; 
and  she,  who  beforetime  had  appeared  the  most 
unfeminine  of  women,  showed  tenderness  and 
patience,  and  such  unwearying  devotion,  as  mo'e 
gentle  or  sentimental  mothers  could  form  no 
idea  of.  As  months  went  on,  and  the  little  crea- 
ture began  to  outgrow  the  early  debility  of  his 
constitution,  his  mother  resumed  her  former  occu- 
pations— making  everything,  however,  subservient 
to  this  master  affection ;  and  she  might  be  seen 
looking  after  her  grooms,  or  her  dogs,  with  tne 
child  in  her  arms.  His  education  began  early ; 
he  was  indulged  in  every  wish,  and  whoever  had 
dared  to  cross  his  desires  or  temper,  would  have 
received  the  severest  reproofs  from  his  mothei. 
He  grew  strong,  and  hale,  and  rosy ;  and  befoie 
he  could  walk  he  learned  to  ride.  His  motfter 
carried  him  on  horseback  before  her,  and  he  sat 
on  her  knee  when  she  drove.  He  was  the  idoi  of 
her  soul.  People  wondered  that  she  had  so  faith- 
fully enacted  the  nurse ;  but  had  he  required  ten 
times  the  care,  ten  times  the  anxiety,  she  would 
have  been  capable  of  all.  Well  indeed  did  she 
think  herself  repaid  as  the  brave  little  fellow, 
at  two  years  old,  followed  her  about  with  the 
dogs ;  and  though  at  four  he  was  wild  and  wilful, 
and  unmanageable  as  an  unbroken  colt,  she  saw 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS.  23 

in  it  nothing  but  evidence  of  a  fine  manly  spirit 
Whatever  he  did  was  right  in  her  eyes. 

At  six  years  old  they  might  be  met  on 
their  morning's  ride,  twenty  miles  from  home,  he 
on  his  little  horse,  booted  and  spurred,  belted, 
and  clad  in  scarlet,  the  most  accomplished  of  little 
horsemen  in  three  counties.  It  would  have  been 
also  impossible  to  have  found  a  child  more  at- 
tractive in  appearance  than  he.  His  complexion 
glowed  with  life,  health,  and  buoyant  spirits ;  his 
eyes  sparkled;  and  his  long,  curling,  dark  hair, 
which,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  time,  was 
worn  long,  fell  on  his  shoulders.  Wherever  he 
went,  admiring  eyes  followed  him,  filling  the  heart 
of  his  mother  with  undisguised  pride. 

At  ten,  his  mother  had  him  no  longer  under 
control ;  and  in  order  to  obtain  the  slightest  sub- 
mission, she  resorted  to  bribes  and  flattery.  He 
should  have  the  pony,  for  which  he  had  been  teaz- 
ing  her,  if  he  would  learn  his  lessons ;  he  should 
have  the  gilt  spurs,  if  he  would  go  to  church ;  or 
he  should  go  to  the  races,  if  he  would  give  up  some 
fancy,  injurious  or  inconvenient,  no  doubt,  upon 
which  he  was  bent.  Thus  he  soon  learned  to  take 
advantage  of  his  mother's  affection,  and  every  duty 
was  soon  bargained  for  by  him. 

But  we  have  gone  on  too  fast.  We  must  return 
now  to  the  time  when  Dick  was  three  years  old. 
At  that  time  Mrs.  Durant  became  the  mother  of 
another  child — a  daughter.  Had  it  been  a  boy, 
she  could  not  have  had  the  same  affection  for  it  as 
for  the  elder;  but  for  a  girl  she  had  almost  a 
contempt.     The  infant  was  given  over  to  the  care 


24  STANTON 'COMBE 

of  its  nurse ;  but  the  heart  of  the  father  yearned 
towards  this  little  neglected  one.  He  visited  her 
nursery  daily ;  took  her  in  his  arms ;  hushed  her 
to  sleep,  and  placed  her  tenderly  in  her  cradle. 
When  her  mother  had  been  asked,  at  the  time  of 
baptism,  what  name  she  wished  the  child  to  bear, 
she  answered  carelessly,  that  it  was  indifferent  to 
her.  Her  father,  therefore,  who  in  his  own  mind 
fixed  upon  his  friend  Mrs.  Betty  Thicknisse  for 
the  god-mother,  suggested  her  name,  and  she  was 
baptized  Elizabeth. 

Mrs.  Betty  was  no  traveller,  and  yet  on  this 
interesting  occasion  she  came  to  Stanton-Combe 
She  could  not  command  a  coach-and-four ;  she 
therefore  came  riding  double — it  was  a  common 
style  then,  even  for  a  gentlewoman — behind  an 
ancient  serving-man.     Her  offerings  to  the  child 
she  brought  in  a  curiously  carved  ivory  box,  an 
old  heir-loom,  which  she  carried  on  her  knee ;  a 
delicate  cap  of  her  own  needlework ;  a   cambric 
cloak  trimed  with  fine  old  lace— it  was  fortunately 
summer — and  a  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings.     Be- 
sides these  was  a  small  packet,  which  the  good 
lady  seemed  to  think  the  most  important  of  all ; 
it  contained  a  penny  loaf,  a  hard-boiled  egg,  and 
a  bunch  of  matches.     These  she  placed  upon  the 
lap  of  the  child,  making  her  receive  each  sepa- 
rately into  her  little  hands,  and  with  each  she  gave 
a  kiss  and  a  blessing,  with  the  wish  that  she  might 
never  know  the  want  of  bread,  have  gold  and 
silver  in  plenty,  and  make  a  happy  marriage. 

Mrs.  Betty  Thicknisse  was  greatly  pleased  with 
her  god-child,  and  Mr.  Durant  was  the  most  at- 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS.  25 

tentive  of  hosts.  She  pronounced  her  visit,  at 
parting,  to  have  been  one  of  unmixed  satisfaction, 
and  Mr.  Durant  himself  escorted  her  the  first 
stages  of  her  homeward  journey. 

Although  there  was  neither  pomp  nor  ceremony 
about  the  birth  or  christening  of  the  little  Eliza- 
both,  her  infancy  was  not  neglected.  In  the  same 
degree  in  which  the  mother  gave  up  her  whole 
soul  to  her  son,  the  weak-minded  but  amiable 
father  took  his  younger  child  to  his  bosom,  and 
she  became  to  him  more  than  a  daughter.  It  was 
a  pleasant  thing  to  see  the  old  man — for  age  had 
come  upon  him  before  his  years — directing  the 
steps  of  the  little  fairy  along  the  garden-paths, 
gathering  flowers  for  her,  showing  her  birds  and 
butterflies,  making  her  familiar  with  the  beautiful 
tints  of  skies  and  leaves,  and  pouring  into  her 
spirit  all  the  sweetness,  and  purity,  and  freshness 
of  nature.  In  return,  she  gave  him  the  most 
entire  affection  ;  and  if  the  childhood  of  the  little 
Elizabeth  was  less  animated  and  varied  than  that 
of  her  brother,  it  was  not  less  happy.  Yet  the 
children  were  never  playfellows — at  least  soon 
ceased  to  be  so ;  for  Dick's  animal  spirits  were  so 
vehement  that  his  sport  was  like  that  of  a  young 
lion,  and  his  sister  was  saluted  with  kicks  and 
cuffs,  bites  and  scratches.  His  tokens  of  good- 
will were  such  as  he  bestowed  upon  his  young 
dogs;  but  then  his  sister,  unlike  a  dog,  could  not 
bark  and  bite  again,  and  her  cries  for  help  only 
brought  down  upon  her  the  contemptuous  anger 
of  her   mother,  who,  with  upbraidings   for   her 

D 


26  STANTON-COMBE 

cowardice  and  feebleness,  sent  he  off  to  keep 
company  with  her  father.  Children,  we  know, 
are  imitative  creatures;  and  the  boy  not  only 
imitated  his  mother's  indifference,  but  saw  fine 
diversion  in  the  little  girl's  terror,  and  very  soon 
menaced  her  with  a  doubled  fist  and  a  wag  of  the 
head,  whenever  they  chanced  to  meet;  and  this, 
as  the  best  means  of  defence,  she  took  care  should 
be  as  seldom  as  possible 

As  she  grew  up,  her  father  taught  her  to  read 
and  write,   and,  in  fact,  imparted  to  her  all  the 
knowledge  needful  for  her  years.     He  no  longer 
seemed  melancholy  and  forlorn;    his  heart  was 
sustained  by  the  affectionate  duty  of  this  beloved 
child,  who  never  was  absent  from  his  niind.^    "  I 
must  tell  Lizzy  this,"  or,   "  show  her  that,"  was 
his    perpetual    thought,    and    a    kind    smile    or 
o-reeting  always  welcomed  her  back  to  his  side. 
Poor  old  man  !  he  was  one  of  those  with  whom 
small    pleasures,     and    trivial    wants,    make   up 
the  sum  of  life;   an  affectionate  child  was   his 
attest  companion.    She  combed  out  his  long  white 
locks  every  day,  for  that  was  one  of  his  quiet 
luxuries  ;  she  presented  his  night-cap  for  his  after- 
dinner  nap ;  and  then  always  awaited  his  waking 
with  his  cup  of  chocolate  and  the  newspaper  in 
fier  hand.     "  Bless  you,  my  dear,"  was  his  in- 
variable acknowledgment,   "  but   I    wish    you    a 
better  office !" 

Manv  were  the  traditions  both  of  his  own 
family,  and  of  the  country  round,  with  which  the 
innocent   old   man's    memory   was    stored,    and 


* 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS.  27 


nothing  gave  him  greater  pleasure  than  to  relate 
them  over  and  over  to  his  daughter;  and  many  a 
winter's  day  would  they  go  slowly  through  the 
stately  half-shut-up  rooms  of  the  mansion,  that  he 
might  relate  the  histories  of  the  ancestors  whose 
portraits  hung  on  the  walls.  This  was  the  viscount, 
the  great  man  of  the  family,  who  fought  in  the 
thirty  years'  war,  and  was  honoured  by  Elizabeth 
of  Bohemia,  from  whom  he  received  a  valuable 
ring.  "  I  will  ask  your  mother  to  show  it  you, 
if  she  is  not  tired,  to-night,"  he  would  say.  Here 
was  the  the  portrait  of  old  Madam  Durant,  of 
whom  such  wonderful  stories  were  current;  she 
was  skilled  in  the  black  art,  and  had  a  brownie  in 
her  service,  who  spun  at  night,  when  the  family 
was  in  bed,  all  that  fine  old  linen  which  was  con- 
tained in  a  certain  carved  chest,  and  with  which, 
it  was  believed,  the  fortunes  of  the  house  were 
woven.  As  long  as  that  web  lasted,  the  family 
fortunes  were  not  to  decay:  "  for  this  reason,"  said 
he  to  his  little  daughter,  "  that  damask  is  never 
worn:  we  will  ask  your  mother  for  the  key;  for  it 
is  mighty  curious  linen." 

Many  a  time,  too,  while  his  wife  and  son  were 
careering  over  the  country  at  the  head  of  the 
hunt,  or  were  betting  at  races,  or  attending  a 
horse-fair,  Elizabeth  and  her  father  were  wander- 
ing away  into  the  far-off  fields,  through  woods, 
and  by  old  wells,  tracing  out  again  the  same 
legendary  histories.  Here  was  the  Hunter's  Linn, 
where  the  young  heir  of  a  noble  house  had  pe- 
rished in  the  fog,  of  a  November  day,  when  he  had 
gone  forth 


28  STANTON-COMBE 

With  his  good  hound  the  deer  to  follow  ; 
The  large  red  deer  at  break  of  day, 

O'er  many  a  moss  and  moorland  hollow. 

And  here  too  was  the  Lady's  Well,  of  which  also 
spoke  its  particular  legend : — 

White  as  is  the  white  hoar  frost, 

And  white  as  is  the  snow, 
The  lady  from  the  water  clear 

At  full  moon  rises  slow; 
And  she  who  sees  her  smiling  face, 

Shall  happy  pass  through  life  ; 
But  she  who  sees  her  when  she  weeps 

Shall  be  a  weeping  wiFe. 

"  And  is  it  true,  father?"  the  little  girl  would 
inquire. 

"  Oh  yes;  no  doubt  of  it!"  the  good  old  man 
would  say,  for  he  himself  believed  it.  "  When  I 
was  a  boy  it  was  a  regular  thing  for  young  maidens 
to  watch  the  well.  I  have  heard  of  many  a  one 
who  has  seen  her.  But  I  would  not,  Lizzy  love, 
that  you  ever  watched ;  it  is  a  sort  of  mistrusting 
of  Providence." 

"  No,  father,"  she  would  reply ;  "  and  besides 
it  is  a  dismal  place." 

Then  again,  they  would  ascend  some  particular 
eminence. 

"  From  this  spot,"  said  he  one  day,  pointing  all 
round  over  a  fair,  broad  landscape  of  green  hills 
and  wooded  hollows,  "  may  be  seen  what  once 
was  the  inheritance  of  our  house :  a  horseman, 
well  mounted,  on  a  summer's  day  might  have  rid- 
den round  it." 

"  But  what  is  the  grey  hall  among  yon  wooa  i  * 
asked  she. 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS.  29 

"  That  hall,  with  its  seven  farms,"  replied  the 
father,  "  came  into  our  house  with  the  heiress  of 
Denning  Fells:  her  wedding-dress  was  worth  as 
many  merks  as  she  had  acres." 

"  And  yon  ruined  square  tower?"  asked  Eliza- 
beth. 

"  That  mass  of  old  masonry,'  replied  he,  "was 
the  dwelling  of  John  of  Hartlebury,  the  great 
rival  of  our  house.  Our  first  ancestor  and  he 
fought  hand  to  hand  seven  times,  and  neither  got 
the  better  of  the  other.  His  lands  became  forfeit 
to  the  crown  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Sixth, 
and  were  bestowed  upon  our  house." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  there,  father,"  said  she. 

"  It  is  too"  far,  Lizzy,  love,  for  your  little  feet," 
returned  he,  kissing  her ;  "  but,  oh  dear,  what 
old  memories  come  over  my  mind  as  I  think  of 
Hartlebury  Tower !  I  am  but  a  fool  for  an  old 
man,"  said  he,  wiping  his  eyes — "but  a  sorry  old 
fool ! — but  we  used  to  go  to  Hartlebury  Tower  for 
owls'  nests." 

"  What,  you  and  -uncle  Tom  ?"  asked  the  little 
girl;  for  her  father's  boyhood  and  uncle  Tom 
were  not  unfrequently  the  subject  of  their  talk; 
and  she  was  used  to  see  her  father  shed  tears  when 
he  spoke  of  those  times. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  replied  he,  "  uncle  Tom,  for  sure ! 
He  was  a  high-spirited  lad,  as  bold  as  Dick,  but 
not  half  so  boisterous  ;  Dick's  too  noisy  for  you 
and  me,  dear — yes,  yes — and  he  was  fonder  of 
books  than  of  out-of-door  sports  ;  and  yet  he  never 
could  bear  that  I  should  outdo  him,  even  in  the 
taking  of  an  owl's  nest !     Poor  Tom  !  he  wondered 

d2 


30  STANTON-COMBE 

how  it  was  that  I  could  climb  Hartlebury  Tower 
so  much  better  than  he,  and  he  the  better 
scholar!" 

"  Why  did  uncle  Tom  go  ?"  asked  the  child. 

"  Bless  you!"  said  he,  pressing  her 'little  hand 
in  the  glow  of  affection  that  for  the  moment  inter- 
rupted the  current  of  his  thoughts,  "  Why  did 
he  go  ?  Oh,  he  was  high-spirited,  you  see,  and 
took  offence  when  I  meant  none.  He  left  me 
without  so  much  as  a  '  God  bless  you.'  " 

"  It  was  very  unkind,"  said  she.  "  And  did  he 
make  you  afraid  of  him,  father?"  asked  she,  a  few 
moments  after;  for  from  her  experience  of  her 
own  brother  she  imagined  so. 

"  I  could  always  manage  Tom,"  replied  her  fa- 
ther, "  clever  as  he  was,  and  headstrong  too, 
when  I  was  left  to  myself.  He  could  never  bear 
■  to  be  beaten  at  anything — not  even  at  climbing 
Hartlebury  Tower,  nor  in  catching  a  minnow ; 
and,  speaking  of  minnows,  I  had  just  one  way  of 
managing  him.  Tom  was  no  angler — he  had  no 
patience  for  angling — and  yet  he  could  not  bear  that 
I  should  beat  him  even  in  angling.  Well,  you  see 
that  little  brook  all  fringed  with  alders — a  mighty 
pleasant  brook — and  it  was  our  favourite,  for  there 
are  deep,  still  hollows  in  it,  where  the  fish  lie. 
Now  Dick  is  no  angler,  or  he  might  have  good 
sport  there :  but,  bless  me !  I  forgot  that  we 
have  not  the  fishing  of  that  brook  now !  Well, 
we  had  it  then  ;  and  as  Tom  was  always  out  of 
humour  when  he  could  not  be  first  and  best  at 
everything,  I  used  to  manage  thus :  while  he  sat 
poring  over  his  book,  a  good  way  from  his  line,  I 


AND    ITS    INHABITANTS.  SI 

used  to  steal  down  to  it,  and  hook  him  on  a  fine 
fish,  and  then  bid  him  keep  an  eye  on  his  line , 
and  he,  seeing  there  was  something  upon  it,  would 
come  up  eagerly,  and,  never  suspecting  me,  be  in 
good  humour  the  rest  of  the  day.  Poor  Tom  !  I 
had  twenty  ways  of  managing  him  !" 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  little  girl,  "  whether  he 
ever  thinks  of  you,  father  ?" 

"  I  hope  he  does,"  replied  he:  "  and  I  am  sure 
he  will  remember  nothing  but  what's  good  of  me," 
added  he,  with  the  single-mindedness  and  simpli- 
city of  his  character. 

"  But  look,  father,  look  !"  exclaimed  Elizabeth, 
pointing  to  the  meadows  below ;  "  there's  Dick 
and  my  mother  riding  home. 

"  Let  us  hasten  too,"  said  her  father,  "  or  we 
shall  be  too  late  for  dinner:  they  come  home  so 
hungry  after  their  rides,  they  never  think  of  wait- 
ing for  us !" 

"  It  must  be  a  fine  thing  to  ride  as  well  as  Dick 
does,"  said  his  sister.  "  Do  you  not  think  him 
handsome,  father?  But  I  wish  he  were  not  so  rude; 
he  does  talk  so  very  loud  1" 

"  Dick  will  be  just  like  his  mother,"  replied  he; 
"  she  was  reckoned  a  great  beauty  when  I  mar- 
ried her.  But  come  along,  Lizzy,  love,  or  we 
shall  be  too  late  !" 

And  ten  to  one,  after  all,  they  would  be  too 
late,  and  only  come  in  when  Dick  and  his  mother, 
having  dined,  were  regaling  their  dogs. 


38 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SOWING. 

Mrs.  Durant  could  not  bear  to  part  wAh  her 
darling  for  school ;  he  was  therefore  taught  as 
chance  directed,  in  such  odds  and  enas  of  time 
as  could  be  spared  from  his  multifarious  occupa- 
tions of  huntsman,  sportsman,  groom,  and  jockey. 
From  his  mother  he  learned  the  various  arts, 
crafts,  and  accomplishments  which  fitted  him  for 
these  characters  ;  riding,  driving,  firing  at  a  mark, 
knowing  the  points  of  a  horse,  betting  with  good 
luck  ;  training  horses  and  dogs,  physicking  them, 
and,  if  need  were,  even  shoeing  the  former.  There 
was  no  lack  of  employment  for  every  day,  and  all 
day  long. 

By  the  time  he  was  twelve,  Dick  Durant  was 
the  glory  of  a  horse-fair,  and  the  admiration  of  the 
race-course.  Mrs.  Durant  was  a  proud  woman, 
and  would  not  contradict,  nor  otherwise,  as  she 
said,  take  down  the  spirit  of  a  lad  of  his  mettle. 

A  youth,  such  as  we  have  described  him,  could 
have  neither  time  nor  inclination  for  much  learning. 
The  parish-clerk,  however,  "  a  desperate  scholar," 
as  the  village  averred,  was  hired  to  teach  him  his 
humanities  ;  yet  so  many  were  his  occupations,  in- 
doors and  out,  that  it  was  marvellous  how  he  ever 
learned  to  read  and  write.  What  Dick,  however, 
disregarded,  his  sister  made  great  proficiency  in. 
Her  father,  as  we  have  said,  was  her  earliest  in- 
structor,  and  at  five  she  knew  more  of  primers 


SOWIKG.  33 

and  pot-hooks  than  he  did  at  ten ;  but  as  she  had 
a  great  desire  for  instruction,  and  the  worthy 
schoolmaster  took  a  vast  fancy  to  so  teachable  a 
scholar,  he  filled  up  the  time  when  Dick  kept  him 
waiting,  or  altogether  absented  himself,  by  gra- 
dually sliding  her  into  the  various  branches  in  which 
he  was  hired  to  instruct  "  Master  Richard." 

But  the  learning  which  Elizabeth  gained  from 
this  professor  of  the  sciences  was  not  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  her  mother;  for  whenever  she  saw  her 
so  employed,  she  sent  her  off  with  a  reprimand, 
and  fetched  in  her  son  from  the  stable  or  kennel, 
"  that  he  might  attend  to  his  books  as  became  a 
gentleman." 

At  fifteen,' his  mother  began  to  have  some  un- 
pleasant misgivings  as  to  her  system  of  education. 
The  curate  of  the  neighbouring  parish  was  then 
engaged  as  his  tutor,  and  Dick  was  ordered  to 
ride  over  three  times  a-week,  with  all  his  lessons 
prepared.  The  only  rides  that  Dick  ever  objected 
to  were  these  ;  and  numerous  and  most  ingenious 
were  the  devices  and  excuses  he  had  recourse  to, 
to  avoid  them  ;  he  was  even  known  to  have  lamed 
his  horse,  as  a  reason  for  staying  at  home.  His 
mother  coaxed,  and  threatened,  and  bribed ;  and 
at  length  he  was  so  completely  the  master,  that 
he  did  not  learn  even  a  Latin  verb  without  a  re- 
ward. All  this  suited  him  extremely  well ;  he 
had  no  love  for  learning,  and  spite  of  the  bribe  he 
had  received  for  preparing  his  lessons,  he  played 
truant  whenever  he  could,  that  he  might  not  have 
the  trouble  of  learning  lessons  for  the  next  time. 
Dick's  conscience  was  not  at  all  a  sensitive  one ; 


34  SOWING. 

and  he  thought  it  a  capital  joke  to  cheat  both  his 
mother  and  his  master. 

At  length  the  time  came  when  he  must  go  to 
college.  It  was  a  hard  thing  for  his  mother  to 
part  with  him — the  hardest  trial  she  had  known 
for  many  years;  but  to  him  it  was  pleasant  enough. 
Dick  Durant  gained  great  celebrity  at  Oxford, 
but  it  was  not  of  a  creditable  kind  ;  and  from 
time  to  time  rumours  reached  Stanton-Combe, 
which  troubled  and  displeased  even  his  mother. 

We  have  spoken  about  money  difficulties  which 
weighed  heavily  upon  the  estate.  The  advances 
which  were  made  to  Dick,  during  his  college  life, 
added  greatly  to  them.  He  had  never  been  taught 
the  value  of  money,  nor,  what  is  even  more  im- 
portant, the  necessity  of  curbing  his  desires.  It 
was  enough  for  his  mother  that  he  expressed  a 
wish;  that  wish  was  gratified,  even  at  the  cost  of 
others'  comfort.  When  Dick,  therefore,  went  from 
home,  at  the  most  inconsiderate  and  self-indulgent 
time  of  life,  he  had  no  desire  to  study  economy, 
although  his  mother  had  often  declared  herself 
"  hard  set  to  obtain  even  a  pound." 

The  truth  was,  that  by  this  time  Anthony 
Sharpie,  of  whom  we  before  spoke,  had  assisted 
Mrs.  Durant  to  involve  herself  completely  in 
difficulties  of  all  kinds.  For  many  years,  Sir 
Thomas  Durant,  his  patron,  who,  as  our  readers 
are  aware,  had  kept  his  eye  upon  his  sister-in-law 
and  the  family  estate,  had  through  Sharpie  sup- 
plied her  with  money  on  every  emergency,  until 
the  very  amount  of  interest  swallowed  up  all  the 
rent.     The  family,  thriftless  as  it  was,  had  to  be 


SOWING.  35 

maintained,   and  year  after  year  the  interest  of 
Sharples's — or  rather  Sir  Thomas's— money  re- 
mained unpaid  till  it  became  a  mountain  of  debt. 
Mrs.  Durant  kept  hoping  and  hoping  to  clear  off 
something ;  but  every  succeeding  year  found  the 
family    expenses    greater ;     and    Dick    went   to 
college  at  the  time  when  Mrs.  Durant  had  almost 
began  to  despair  of  things  ever  getting  straight 
again— at    least    before    Dick     married.      Dick 
was  very  handsome,  and  after  he  had  sown  his 
wild    oats  at   college  he  would  come  back,  she 
hoped,  marry    some    rich    heiress,  and  clear  off 
all  encumbrances  at  once.      There  was  no  end 
'to  Mrs.  Durant's  hopfulness,  when  her  son  was 
the  subject'  "  Young   men,"    she    said,    "  must 
not  be  too,  much  controlled ;  they  were  not  like 
women  ;  and  it  was  a  clear  impossibility  that  they 
could  live  without  money ;  they  had  a  figure  to 
maintain  in  the  world ;  and  Dick  had  always  the 
spirit  of  a  gentleman.     It  was  money,"  she  said, 
«  that  was  well  laid  out.     What  signified  a  little 
trifling  difficulty  now,    there  were   only  herself, 
Lizzy,  and  the  old  man  at  home  ?    They  would  live 
on  bread  and  water,  rather  than  that  Richard  should 
deprive   himself  of  what  his  standing  in  society 
required  ;  she  never  thought  much  of  a  young 
man  being  headstrong  and  extravagant;  it  was 
natural,  and  was  the  sign  of  a  fine  spirit;  Richard 
would  be  the  making  of  his  family,  as  much  as  his 
great  ancestor  Richard  had  been  such  before  him." 
So  argued  Mrs.  Durant ,  and  never  failed  to  have 
arguments  and  reasons  ready  to   excuse  the  dis- 
orderly  conduct  for  which   he   received   publio 


2%  SOWING. 

reprimands  at  college.  At  length  she  was  in- 
formed by  the  heads  of  his  college,  that  his  mis- 
deeds could  not  longer  be  tolerated.  Reproof 
and  disgrace  produced  no  amendment  upon  him, 
and  Richard  Durant  was  expelled.  He  returned 
home,  not  ashamed,  but  enraged ;  he  made,  of 
course,  his  own  statement  to  his  mother,  and  she 
declared  he  was  infamously  used. 

Stanton-Combe  was  a  dreary  solitude  to  Pick, 
after  his  return  from  his  wild  college  life.  He 
got  into  divers  scrapes  ;  made  friends  of  poachers, 
and  went  out  with  them  at  night ;  joined  strolling 
players,  and  frequented  fairs  and  wakes,  where  he 
got  into  all  kind  of  low-lived  troubles  ;  till  at 
length,  tired  of  this,  his  fancy  took  a  wider  range, 
and  he  announced  his  intention  of  going  to  Lon- 
don. His  mother  made  no  objection  to  this,  for 
she  thought  it  would  do  him  good  to  see  the  world. 
Accordingly  she  sold  her  own  blood  horse,  and 
put  sixty  guineas  into  his  purse,  with  a  letter  re- 
commending him  to  the  friendly  care  of  Anthony 
Sharpie  ;  and  having  seen  him  mounted  on  the 
driving-box  of  the  York  mail,  returned  home  with 
a  sense  of  loneliness  at  her  heart ;  for  there  was  no 
life  nor  joy  to  her  where  her  son  was  not. 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  Anthony  Sharpie 
and  Sir  Thomas  Durant  better  than  to  have  him 
in  London.  His  sixty  guineas  were  soon  spent 
— all  the  sooner  because  Sharpie,  who  was  his  fre- 
quent companion,  had  given  him  a  hint,  that  if  he 
wanted  money  he  had  only  to  speak  to  him. 
When  was  such  a  hint  ever  lost  upon  a  thriftless 
young  man  ?    Money  was  had  for  the  asking,  and 


SOWING-  S7 

Richard  led  a  merry  life  for  three  months.  At 
that  time  he  attained  his  majority.  It  had  been 
.he  anxious  and  fond  wish  of  Ins  mo  tier,  that  this 
birth-day,  the  happiest,  as  she  thoi>rht,  of  all, 
should  be  kept  at  home;  and  she  had  already  laid 
out  the  scheme  of  the  day's  festivity:  but  he  knew 
that  London  was  gayer  than  Stanton-Combe,  even 
in  its  best  days;  and  he  laughed  at  the  idea  of 
goirtg  down  there,  just  to  please  an  old  woman, 
who  had  set  her  heart  on  eating  plum-pudding 
with  him,  and  drinking  his  health  in  old  ale!" 

By  degrees  unpleasant  apprehensions  stole  into 
Mrs.  Durant's  mind,  and  she  wrote  to  Sharpie  to 
urge  her  son's  return,  and  also  to  request  that 
money  might  not  be  advanced  ;  "  although,"  said 
she,  "  he  is, now  his  own  master.  But  you  know, 
my  good  sir,"  she  added,  "  the  state  of  my  affairs 
as  well  as  I  do ;  and  I  do  not  wish  niy  son  to  in- . 
volve  himself  in  difficulties  before  he  takes  the 
management  into  his  own  hands.  He  has  but 
one  fault — a  fault,  I  apprehend,  common  to  most 
young  men — disinclination  for  business.  I  have 
been  unwilling,  heretofore,  to  urge  business  upon 
him ;  but  the  time  is  now  come  when  his  good 
sense  will  be  stronger  than  my  persuasions." 

Anthony  Sharpie  smiled  one  of  his  most  sinister 
smiles  as  he  read  the  letter,  and  saw  the  mother 
was  trying  to  impose  upon  her  own  judgment. 
He,  however,  informed  Richard  of  his  mother's 
wish  for  his  return.  Richard  was  angry  that 
"  she  should  set  Sharpie  to  meddle  in  hi?  affairs," 
and  vowed  "that  he  would  not  go  back  for  all  the 
mothers  in  the  world."     Sharpie  urged  him  uo 

E 


88  SOWING. 

more ;  and  Sir  Thomas  was  quite  as  well  pleased 
that  he  staid  yet  longer,  and  involved  himself  in 
debts  on  his  own  account.     At  length,  Richard 
himself  began  to  talk  of  returning  ;  and,  as  a  yet 
further  step  towards  it,  fixed  upon  a  day.     Sharpie 
desired  an  interview  with  him  on  business.     He 
then  made  him  listen  to  a  long  detail  of  money 
matters,  arrears  of  interest,  and  transfers  of  mort- 
gages, through  a  period  of  ten  or  twelve  years. 
Had  Sharpie  spoken  in  the  language  of  Tadmor 
he  could  not  have  been  more  unintelligible.     One 
thing  only  could  Dick  understand — that  no  more 
money  could  be  advanced,  either  to  him  or  to  his 
mother.      Abundant   were    the  apologies    which 
Sharpie  made;  and,  so  far  he  explained  himself  as 
to  confess,  that  he  was  but  the  agent  of  another 
person — of  the  money-lender,  in  fact,  who  was 
"  now  determined  to  put  things  on  another  foot- 
ing !"     He  wished  it  were  in  his  power  to  accom- 
modate them  with  money,   "  but  he  himself,"  he 
said,  "  was  poor."     Dick  would  have  laughed  at 
such  an  assertion,  at  any  other  time,  but  the  law- 
yer's countenance  had  made  him  grave  too.     In- 
stead, however,  of  seeing  folly  in  his  own  reckless 
extravagance,  he  only  was  angry  with  his  mother, 
"  who  had  let  his  affairs,"  he  said,  "  get  into  such 
a  ravel !     Was  there  no  way,"   Richard    asked, 
"  by  which  they  could  get  out  of  the  mess?" 
Sharpie   appeared  to  demur,  and  then  suggested 
that  there    was.     "  If  the  entail  were  annulled, 
and  sale  of  the  land  effected,  all  borrowed  monies 
might  be  cleared  off."    Dick  did  not  like  the  idea 
of    parting    with    his    partrimony,    and   refused. 


SOWING.  39 

"  We  part  then,"  said  Sharpie;  "and  I  must  pre- 
sent you  with  this  small  piece  of  paper,  which, 
you  will  see,  demands,  within  six  months,  the  re- 
payment of  all  money  lent,  with  legal  interest 
thereon."  "  It  is  impossible !"  said  Richard, 
looking  with  horror  at  the  long  array  of  figures ; 
"  you  know  it  to  be  impossible  as  well  as  I  do !" 
Sharpie  did  not  deny  that,  and  again  mentioned 
sale.  Richard  swore  that  sale  should  never  be; 
and,  desiring  Sharpie  to  turn  it  over  in  his  head, 
took  coach  home;  "being  determined,"  he  said, 
"  to  give  the  old  woman  a  regular  blowing  up !" 

Mrs.  Durant  was  overjoyed  to  see  her  son,  but 
he  met  her  with  reproaches;  money  quarrels  are 
always  bitter  ones;  and  a  scene  of  altercation 
followed,  in  which  Richard  out-stormed  his  mo- 
ther, and  she  went  to  bed  with  a  sore  feeling  at 
her  heart,  that  her  son  treated  her  with  great  un- 
kindness. 

There  was  nothing  which  Sir  Thomas  Durant 
so  much  desired  as,  that  the  want  of  money  should 
be  severely  felt  at  Stanton-Combe.  The  time 
which  he  desired  was  now  come.  In  vain  had 
Mrs.  Durant,  foreseeing  coming  troubles,  reduced 
her  own  and  the  family's  expenditure  to  the  lowest 
scale.  She  had  parted,  as  we  have  seen,  with  her 
own  expensive  horse ;  she  no  longer  allowed  her- 
self a  new  broad-cloth  habit,  each  season;  she 
attended  no  races,  nor  county  balls,  as  she  had 
formerly  done.  She  parted  with  every  extra  ser- 
vant who  contributed  merely  to  her  own,  or  her 
husband's,  or  daughter's  comfort.  Richard  only 
retrenched  nothing — nor,  certainly,  did  his  mother 


40  SOWING. 

ur<re  it  upon  him.  "  Poor  follow !"  said  she, 
"  why  should  he?"  So  Richard  kept  his  blood 
horse  still,  with  his  groom,  and  a  horse  for  his 
groom.  He  had  his  roistering  companions  about 
him,  and  plenty  of  old  wine  to  drink.  He  had 
his  three  or  four  suits  a-year;  his  riding,  his 
shooting,  his  hunting,  and  his  dress  suits ;  his  boots, 
his  hats,  his  whips,  his  spurs,  his  saddles;  he  saved 
in  nothing :  even  his  gloves  alone  cost  nearly  as 
much  as  his  sister's  clothes. 

Mrs.  Durant  oftentimes,  in  the  depths  of  her 
own  mind,  thought,  though  she  never  gave  the 
thought  words,  that  Richard  might  have  more 
consideration  than  to  spend  so  much  upon  himself; 
yet  at  that  very  time  she  was  making  him  Holland 
shirts  with  cambric  ruffles,  each  of  which  cost 
above  a  pound ;  and  if  any  one— Anthony  Sharpie, 
or  Lady  Thicknisse— censured  the  young  man  s 
extravagance,  she  not  only  stoutly  defended  him, 
but  resolutely  took  his  part.  "  He  was  moderate 
in  all  things,"  she  said;  "  for  a  gentleman  must 
have  his  indulgences;  it  mattered  nothing  to 
women— they  stayed  at  home,  and  nobody  saw 
them  ;  but  as  long  as  there  was  a  stone  about  the 
place,'  Dick  should  never  go  penny-lacking  !" 

If  Mrs.  Durant  at  any  time  remonstrated  with 
him,  or  spoke  of  the  desperate  state  of  affairs, 
Dick,  if  he  were  in  a  bad  humour,  quarrelled  with 
her ;  or,  if  otherwise,  turned  it  off  by  declaring 
that  he  would  marry  and  retrieve  all. 

"  I  will  marry,"  he  said,  "  our  neighbour,  Miss 
Letty  Barham.  She  has  twenty  thousand  pounds 
—and   that  will   do   something;  or,  if  she   will 


A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES.  41 

not  have  me,  I'll  have  Nelly  Nicholson:  she's 
older  than  you,  mother,  and  never  was  so  hand- 
some; but  Nelly  would  clear  off  all  our  incum- 
brances at  a  stroke  of  her  pen,  and  leave  plenty 
behind!" 

At  such  sallies  as  these  his  mother  laughed,  and 
called  him  a  wag. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES. 

Twelve  months  after  Richard's  return  from  Lon- 
don, the  crisis,  which  had  been  so  long  approach- 
ing, was  at  hand.  Sharpie  had  refused  further 
advances,  and  again  demanded  payment  of  prin- 
cipal and  interest;  and,  more  than  that,  Richard 
was  arrested  for  debt.  Again,  in  desperation, 
they  applied  to  Sharpie.  In  return  he  sent  the 
draft  of  a  deed  for  cutting  off  the  entail,  and  a 
letter  recommending  such  a  step. 

"  What!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Durant,  when  she 
had  hastily  glanced  over  his  letter,  "  that  we 
should  make  ourselves  the  derision  of  the  country; 
that  we  should  give  every  petty  upstart  in  the 
neighbourhood  the  opportunity  of  picking  and 
choosing  this  field  or  that!  No,  no,  Richard,  I 
have  not  toiled  night  and  day  for  that !  I  have  not 
seen  to  the  tilling  of  the  laud,  like  the  commonest 
farmer,  and  attended  markets  and  fairs,  as  no 
other  gentlewoman   ever  did  before  me,  only  to 

e2 


42  A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES. 

iee  your  patrimony  go  from  you,  and  you  made 
a  beggar!" 

She  wept;  and  he  was  troubled  by  her  emotion. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Dick  thought  he  had 
done  wrong  ;  so  he  gathered  the  papers  together, 
and  said  they  would  think  about  it  again  on  the 
morrow.    Dick  thought  it  over  all  night,  and  also 
read  the  whole  of  Mr.  Anthony  Sharpie's  letter, 
postscript   and    all.      The  proposal    did    not  ap- 
pear quite  so  bad  as  at  first  it  appeared.     The 
letter  declared  "  the  cutting  off  of  the   entail  to 
be  merely  a  provisional  step  to  satisfy  the  prin- 
cipal creditor."    Little  did  they  think  that  was  Sir 
Thomas  Durant.     "  That  there  would  be  no  neces- 
sity for  public  sale;    but  it    would    merely  pass 
quietly  into    other   hands:  and,    moreover,   they 
should  remain  as  tenants  in  the  place,  until  Mr. 
Richard  Durant's  marriage,  or  some  other  means, 
might  enable  them  to  repurchase  the  estate  into 
their  own  hands.     They  would  merely  have  to 
pay  rent  instead  of  interest;  and  besides,  if,  as 
was   most  likely  to  be  the  case,  the    estate,   on 
fair  valuation,  was  found  to  be  worth  more  than 
the  amount  of  money  borrowed,  and  the  arrears 
of  interest  due  thereon,  such  money  would  enable 
Richard  to  stock  his  farms,  and  would,  in  fact, 
furnish  a  new  capital — the  very  ready  money  of 
which  he  now  stood  in  need." 

To  Mrs.  Durant's  amazement,  Dick  came 
down  next  morning  dressed  in  his  best.  He  was 
going,  he  said,  to  ask  the  hand  of  Nelly  Nichol- 
son ;  and  if  he  had  no  luck  there,  he  would  e'en 
do  as  Sharnle  advised. 


A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES.  43 

Before  noon  Richard  returned  from  his  wooing, 
but  with  a  dark  cloud  on  his  brow,  that  told  how 
he  had  sped.  His  mother  made  no  inquiries. 
It  was  enough  that  he  had  been  rejected;  her 
heart  bled  for  him,  and  she  redoubled  her  kind- 
ness. 

He  was  disappointed  and  angry,  and  it  was  in 
vain  that  she  besought  him  to  return  a  negative 
to  Sharpie— at  all  events  to  pause,  or  try  his  luck 
elsewhere.  He  was,  however,  the  wilful  man  that 
would  have  his  own  way. 

In  two  months'  time  the  whole  estate  had  been 
valued,  the  important  documents  drawn,  and 
Sharpie  and  another  lawyer  came  down  to  Stan- 
ton-Combe,"  to  see  them  properly  signed. 

There  was  a  deal  of  signing  of  names  to  trans- 
fers of  mortgages,  and  purchase  deeds,  and  no- 
body knows  what.  The  poor  old  father,  now  sunk 
into  premature  superannuation,  signed  his  name 
whenever  he  was  desired  to  do  so,  yet  forgot  the 
fact  the  moment  afterwards. 

We  have  said  nothing  of  Elizabeth,  of  late,  but, 
of  course,  she  had  now  grown  to  womanhood.  She 
was  gentle  and  kind  as  the  promise  of  her  youth, 
but  a  cipher  in  the  family.  She  was  fully  aware 
that  all  this  signing  of  parchments  had  some  deep 
meaning;  but  though  she  ventured  to  inquire 
what  it  might  be,  she  was  not  favoured  with  any 
satisfactory  answer ;  and  when  she  suggested  that 
her  father,  in  his  present  state,  was  not  responsible 
for  his  actions,  and,  therefore,  his  signatures  could 
not  be  valid,  she  was  sharply  reprimanded  for  her 
interference;  for  although  Mrs.  Durant  had  sted- 


44  A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES. 

fastly  opposed  the  scheme  at  first,  now  that  her 
son  was  bent  upon  adopting  it,  she  not  only  ac- 
ceded, but  felt  bound  to  vindicate  it  also. 

In  three  days'  time  Anthony  Sharpie  laid  all 
the  deeds,  properly  signed  and  witnessed,  before 
Sir  Thomas  Durant. 

"  The  bait  has  taken,"  said  he;  "  they  are  fairly 
hooked  now." 

"  That  is  right !"  ejaculated  Sir  Thomas. 

"  Stanton- Combe  is  now  bona  fide  yours,  to 
have  and  to  hold  for  ever,"  said  Sharpie;  and 
he  pointed  to  the  different  places  in  which  the 
names  of  Edward  and  Richard  Durant  were 
signed. 

Sir  Thomas  glanced  through  the  parchments, 
and  his  eyes  twinkled  with  satisfaction,  and  then 
fixed  intently  on  the  signatures.  If  there  had 
been  any  goodness  in  his  heart,  it  must  have  been 
touched  by  those  signatures.  The  feeble,  totter- 
ing handwriting  of  the  old  man,  who  had  thus 
made  away  with  his  birthright,  not  knowing  what 
he  did;  and  the  hurried  scrawl  of  the  son,  who  had 
done  it  as  a  man  might  take  a  fearful  leap  in  the 
dark,  with  temerity,  and  yet  with  dread.  He,  how- 
ever, only  remarked,  in  a  cold  voice,  that  they  both 
wrote  very  bad  hands.  The  parchments  were  as 
precious  to  his  soul  as  gold,  and  he  grasped  them 
tight,  as  he  drove  home  in  his  coach. 

Stanton-Combe  had  passed  into  other  hands: 
into  those,  Anthony  Sharpie  said,  of  the  friendly 
money-lender,  whose  agent  he  was,  and  he  had 
given"  his  written  assurance  that  the  family  should 
remain   on  the  estate.     These   words,    however, 


'         A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES.  45 

had  another  meaning  than  what  Mrs.  Durant  and 
her  son  understood;  and  nothing  was  further  from 
her  ideas  than  that  Anthony  Sharpie  was  playing 
them  false. 

Richard  Durant  received  between  seven    and 
eight  thousand  pounds,  as  the  balance  due  to  him 
on  the  purchase  of  the  estate.       "  A  miserable 
sum,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Durant;  and  her  heart  sick- 
ened when  she  thought  of  it  as  the  sole  inheritance 
of  that  darling  son  for  whom,  in  her  eyes,  the 
crown  and   sceptre   themselves    would  not  have 
been  too  costly  a  possession.    However,  they  were 
still  tenants  of  the  land,  still  inhabitants  of  the 
house;  and  they  had  not  only  the  assurance  that 
the  family  should  always  remain  in   "  possession 
as  long  as  themselves  desired  it,  but  also  that  if 
Richard,  by  marriage  or  otherwise,  were  enabled 
to  repurchase,  he  should  do  so;"  and  she  tried  to 
be  satisfied.     She  had  urged  upon  Sharpie  the 
most  profound  secrecy ;  and,  being  assured  of  this, 
she  most  resolutely  set  about  retrieving  the  for- 
tunes of  her  son.     "  I  shall  not  rest  in  my  grave," 
said  she  to  herself,  "  unless  I  leave  him  the  un- 
conditional master  and  heritor  of  the  home  of  his 
ancestors!"     And,    with   an    energy    which  her 
strong,  masculine  character,  as  well  as  her  strong 
affections  prompted,  she  commenced  the  accom- 
plishment of  her  object. 

Again  retrenchment  of  all  supernumerary  com- 
forts and  indulgence  was  the  order  of  the  day 
Still  Richard's  horse  was  continued,  and  Richard's 
groom;  and  he,  who  had  his  pockets  better  filled 
than  thoy  had  been  of  late,  with  some  portion  of 


46  A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES 

the  seven  thousand  pounds,  led  a  jovial  life.  He 
rode  in  his  scarlet  coat  to  the  hunt,  attended  races, 
and  dinners,  and  balls;  his  poor  mother  flattering 
herself  the  while,  that  this  was  good  policy;  it  was 
keeping  the  knowledge  of  their  affairs  from  their 
neighbours;  and  besides  this,  that  in  some  of 
these  gaieties  and  goings  abroad,  Richard  would 
meet  with  the  rich  heiress  whose  gold  was  to  re- 
trieve his  ruin. 

Mrs.  Durant  with  renewed  energy  saw  to  the 
ploughing  and  the  sowing  of  the  land;  she  visited 
the  cribs  of  the  cattle  in  the  farm-yard,  and  busied 
herself  all  the  winter  with  her  farming  occupations. 
One  trouble,  however,  haunted  her — the  indif- 
ference, if  not  neglect,  of  her  son.  She  would 
not  have  permitted  him,  it  is  true,  to  have  taken 
any  servile  part  upon  himself;  she  only  wanted  his 
sympathy — some  evidence  of  his  affection  upon 
which  her  heart  might  gladden.  But  she  had 
sown  to  the  whirlwind,  and  she  had  to  reap  of  the 
blast. 

It  was  a  melancholy  winter;  and  what  made  it 
worse  was,  that  she  could  complain  to  no  one. 
She  had  enough  to  do  to  screen  her  son  from  the 
world's  censure,  without  becoming  his  accuser. 

In  the  spring,  when  Mrs.  Durant  was  blessing 
herself  with  the  promising  appearance  of  her 
winter's  crops,  and  had  finished  sowing  her  spring- 
wheat,  and  began  to  count  the  profits  of  the  next 
harvest,  she  received  a  letter  from  Anthony 
Sharpie,  informing  her  that  the  former  mortgagee 
and  money-lender,  now  possessor  of  Stanton- 
Combe,    was   their   near    kinsman    Sir   Thomas 


A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES.  47 

Durant;  adding,  that  to  his  infinite  regret,  and 
contrary  to  his  expectations,  she  and  her  family 
must  remove  from  the  place.  And  further,  to 
enforce  that  purpose,  a  letter  to  the  same  effect 
was  enclosed  for  her  son,  containing  a  legal  notice 
to  quit  on  or  before  the  twenty-ninth  of  Septem- 
ber next  ensuing. 

Nothing  could  equal  her  consternation  on  read- 
ing this  epistle.  No  suspicion  of'double-dealing 
on  the  part  of'  Sharpie  had  ever  crossed  her  mind 
before.  She  knew  not  what  to  do.  Richard  was 
gone  to  York  assizes,  and,  as  he  had  many  ac- 
quaintances up  and  down,  it  was  uncertain  where 
to  find  him.  She  was  quite  adrift  in  her  judg- 
ment. Sometimes  she  thought  of  making  the 
whole  affair  known  to  her  neighbours;  but  then 
the  bitter  secret  of  Stanton-Combe  having  gone 
from  them  would  transpire.  It  never  entered  her 
head  to  do  the  thing  which,  of  all  others,  would 
have  been  most  natural  and  wise — to  counsel  with 
her  daughter.  That  daughter,  it  is  true,  had 
gradually  been  permitted  to  take  upon  herself 
some  share  of  the  domestic  management,  and  her 
mother  had  received  from  her  consideration  and 
kindness  which,  had  they  been  shown  by  her 
brother  would  have  made  her  the  happiest  of 
women:  still  she  never  made  a  confidant  of  her 
daughter;  it  would  have  been  her  last  thought. 

Mrs.  Durant  wrote  to  Sharpie  in  the  height  of 
her  indignation,  and  declared  she  would  keep  him 
to  his  promise;  and  that  she  valued  his  notice- 
paper  no  more  than  a  straw;  and  that,  while  there 
remained  a  single  tile  upon  the  roof,  no  power  on 


48  A    CHAPTER    OF    TROUBLES. 

earth  should  force  her  to  leave  its  shelter.  Hav- 
ing taken  this  resolution,  she  determined  to  say 
nothing  whatever  to  her  son  on  the  subject ;  more 
especially  as  he  was  then  paying  court  to  the 
daughter  of  a  rich  baronet,  whose  fortune  was  but 
little  inferior  to  the  fair  Kitty  Perkins's.  "  I  will 
never  cross  his  love  with  ill  tidings,"  said  she. 

The  summer  went  on  without  any  further  com- 
munication with  London.  The  harvests  ripened, 
and  were  well  got  in,  and  the  twenty-ninth  of 
September  passed  without  interruption.  Very 
glad  indeed  was  Mrs.  Durant,  now  that  she  had 
kept  all  that  vexation  to  herself.  She  thought  it 
was  merely  a  threat  by  which  the  unkind  kinsman 
would  fain  distress  and  annoy  them;  and  as 
Richard  was  again  unsuccessful  in  his  wooing,  she 
doubly  rejoiced  that  he  had  been  ignorant  of  it. 

She  however  waited  with  painful  apprehension 
the  coming  of  any  letters  or  packets;  but  none, 
either  from  Sharpie  or  Sir  Thomas,  arrived.  She 
paid  the  first  half-year's  rent:  a  galling  thing; 
but  she  called  it  interest;  and  under  that  head 
she  entered  it  in  her  ledger. 

October  passed  on,  and  no  tidings  reached  them, 
and  in  November  Mrs.  Durant  remembered  thai 
one  aay  passed  in  which  she  had  forgotten  hei 
apprehensions.  But  the  time  of  trouble  was  ap- 
proaching. 


49 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THREATENED    EJECTMENT. 

On  the  last  day  of  November,  a  dark,  heavy 
coach-and-tbur,  with  two  out-riders,  arrived  in  the 
afternoon  at  the  Durant  Arms  in  the  village  of 
Stanton. 

Two  gentlemen,  one  elderly  though  still  active, 
descended  from  the  coach,  desiring  rooms  for  the 
night,  and  it  might  be  for  several  nights.  Nothing 
could  exceed  the  bustle  and  excitement  which  this 
arrival  produced.  The  bunch  of  dead  michael- 
mas-daisies,  a  month  old,  was  taken  from  the 
grate  of  the  large,  damp,  best  parlour  of  the  inn; 
the  shutters  were  closed,  and  a  fire  laid,  lit,  and 
coaxed  into  burning  with  all  possible  despatch. 
The  landlord  bustled  about,  in  doors  and  out;  the 
landlady  looked  important;  a  sound  of  frying,  and 
savoury  smells,  went  forth  from  the  kitchen ;  and 
the  curious  villagers,  who  peeped  in  through  the 
window-shutters,  as  the  evening  closed  in,  were 
able  to  announce  that  mutton  chops  and  roast 
pullets  were  being  served  for  the  travellers'  dinner. 
In  the  inn-yard,  others  found  the  lame  ostler  and 
the  postillions,  busy  as  possible,  rubbing  down  the 
horses,  while  equal  care  seemed  to  have  been 
taken  to  accommodate  the  large  and  handsome 
coach.  This  coach  was  soon  perceived  to  be 
much  grander  and  newer  than  the  one  at  Stanton- 
Combe,  which,  however,  had  not  now  been  seen 

r 


50  THREATENED    EJECTMENT. 

for  many  a  day ;  the  arms,  nevertheless,  were  the 
same;  and  then  it  was  discovered  that  this  was  no 
other  than  Sir  Thomas  Durant,  the  great  lawyer, 
from  London:  "  own  brother,"  said  the  villagers, 
"  to  our  Mr.  Durant,  come  on  a  visit  to  his  rela- 
tions, no  doubt  on't."  All  this  furnished  a  rich 
topic  of  conversation,  not  only  in  the  bar  of  the 
Durant  Arms,  but  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Seven 
Stars,  the  inferor  public-house,  and  by  the  black- 
smith's forge  also.  The  Durants  had  never  been 
so  mach  talked  over  before,  not  even  when,  five- 
and-thirty  years  before,  "  the  new  lady"  had 
sent  the  younger  son  into  the  world;  nor  yet  in 
later  years,  when  the  growing  difficulties  of  the 
family,  and  Dick's  wild  pranks,  furnished  subject 
for  wonder  and  speculation. 

While  "  all  the  world"  of  Stanton  was  talking 
over  these  things,  Sir  Thomas  and  his  companion, 
Anthony  Sharpie,  accompanied  by  a  third  person, 
who  walked  considerably  in  the  rear,  were  wend- 
ing their  way  up  to  the  Hall. 

It  was  a  damp  and  cheerless  evening — a  true 
November  night — although  the  moon  was  about 
the  full.  The  trees  were  nearly  stripped  of  their 
leaves,  which  lay  matted  and  wet  below,  and  clogged 
the  feet  of  the  passenger  as  he  trod  among  them. 
The  wind  was  not  loud  nor  strong,  but  was  heard 
in  the  bare  tree-tops  sending  forth  long  and  deep 
soughs  like  the  sobbing  of  a  child.  It  was  one  of 
those  evenings  which  would  diffuse  a  pleasant 
melancholy  over  a  mind  at  ease;  but  a  troubled 
spirit  would  have  been  oppressed  with  its  gloomy 


THREATENED    EJECTMENT.  5] 

character,  especially  if  felt  amid  such  desolate 
gardens,  and  such  old  neglected  avenues  as  those 
of  Stanton-Combe. 

Even  on  a  summer's  day  the  aspect  of  the  place 
might  have  saddened  a  common  beholder,  from 
the  sense  it  gave  of  the  decay  of  an  old  family. 
For  while  money  yet  was  plentiful,  and  expendi- 
ture lavish,  the  place  had  been  suffered  to  go  to 
decay,  because  for  several  generations  its  income 
had  been  below  its  demands.  Its  garden-walls 
were  now  grey  and  mossy ;  its  steps  and  terraces 
thrown  clown  or  broken,  and  from  their  chinks 
and  among  their  ruins,  snap-dragons,  wall-flowers, 
and  dandelions  grew  abundantly.  In  one  corner 
stood  a  summer-house  with  leaded  roof  and  fine 
carved  stone  front,  but  the  wood-work  was 
weather-worn  and  fallen  to  decay,  the  windows 
taken  out,  and  one  of  them  used  as  the  sub- 
stitute for  the  glass  of  a  hot-bed  frame.  The 
grass  of  the  broad  lawns  was  untrimmed,  and  had 
encroached  upon  the  un weeded  gravel.  The  long 
lines  of  low  balustraded  wall,  which  bounded  the 
sunny  side  of  the  flower-garden  and  shrubbery,  was 
in  some  places  mouldering  brick  by  brick,  in  others 
cracked  and  bulging  outward,  and  propped  by 
6tout  pieces  of  timber;  while  one  of  the  richly 
carved  urns  which  surmounted  its  pillared  ex- 
tremities, was  broken  by  the  fall  of  a  strong  tree- 
branch,  and  the  other  thrown  to  the  ground  and 
half  buried  by  tall  weeds.  Nor  was  this  charac- 
ter of  desolation  and  unthrift  confined  alone  to  the 
out-buildings  and  gardens;  it  extended  itself  also  to 
the  house,  which  never,  of  late  years,  had  ap- 


52        THREATENED  EJECTMENT. 

peared  to  be  wholly  inhabited.  Smoke  rose,  but 
from  very  few  of  its  many  chimneys,  and  the  in- 
side shutters  of  its  windows  were  either  half  or 
entirely  closed  from  year's  end  to  year's  end. 

All  this  could  be  seen  only  in  part  by  Sir 
Thomas  Durant,  as  he  neared  the  place:  he,  how- 
ever, could  not  help  feeling  and  remarking  to  his 
companion  as  they  walked  on,  that,  as  far  as  he 
could  judge,  everything  seemed  shockingly  ne- 
glected. As  thev  came  within  view  of  the  house, 
a  dim  light,  as  of  a  fire,  showed  itself  through  two 
of  the  windows  of  the  first  floor— the  windows  of 
that  very  room,  Sir  Thomas  knew,  where  he  had 
parted  from  his  family— the  familiar  old  dining- 


room. 


On  this  particular  evening,  the  old  man,  Sit 
Thomas's  brother,  sat  asleep  in  his  chair;  Eliza- 
beth was  seated  on  a  low  stool,  reading  by  fire- 
light, and  Mrs.  Durant  and  Richard  were  playing 
at  billiards  at  a  small  table  which  was  placed  in  a 
lar»-e  recess,  or  small  ante-room,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  apartment,  lighted  by  a  lamp  suspended  from 
the  ceiling     All  was  profoundly  still,  except  the 
crackling  of  the  wood  in  the  large  low  grate,  and 
the  striking  of  the  balls  in  the  little  billiard-room. 
A  sharp   pang  went  through  the  soul  of  Mrs. 
Durant  as  she  heard  the   undoing    of  the    iron 
fastenings  of  the  large  wrought-iron  gate  which 
•  terminated  the  fifty  yards  of  flagged  walk  that  led 
from   the   principal  entrance.     It  was  not  often 
tha*  that  gate  was  opened,  and  who  could  this  be 
that  seemed  familiar  with  it  ?    The  chain  dropped 
upon  the  flags,  and  the  hoarse  creak  of  the  iron 


THREATENED    EJECTMENT.  53 

hinge  in  its  socket  was  heard.  She,  however, 
only  heard  it — Dick  was  eager  in  his  game,  and 
Elizabeth  was  engrossed  by  her  book.  The  next 
moment  footsteps  ascended  to  the  door,  and  a 
thundering  knock  was  heard.  She  needed  not  to 
be  told  what  it  meant;  but  a  moment  sufficed  for 
her  alarm,  and  then  she  stood  calm  and  nerved 
for  whatever  might  happen.  Richard  threw  down 
his  cue  and  hastily  took  a  light,  while  Elizabeth 
sprung  to  her  feet,  less  alarmed  than  apprehensive 
that  sounds  so  strange  and  unaccustomed  might 
terrify  her  father.  "  Who  can  this  be  ?  what  can 
it  mean  ?"  broke  from  both  Elizabeth  and  her 
brother,  as  the  knock,  which  had  not  been 
answered  by  any  servant,  sounded  again  with  in- 
creased violence. 

Richard  thought  it  was  some  of  his  roistering 
friends  in  a  drunken  frolic,  and  he  smiled  when  he 
saw  his  mother,  with  her  countenance  compressed 
into  unusual  firmness,  go  to  the  door;  for  he 
thought  there  would  be  some  sport. 

A  servant,  who  half  an  hour  before  had  re- 
turned from  plough,  and  whose  dress — a  carter's 
frock  and  livery  breeches — was  a  comment  on  the 
history  of  the  latter  days  of  the  family,  was  with 
the  greatest  possible  attempt  at  haste,  puzzling 
himself  to  undo  the  door.  At  another  time  the 
lady  would  have  impatiently  thrust  the  awkward 
servant  aside,  and  have  applied  her  equally  strong 
arm  and  better  skill,  to  have  undone  the  fasten- 
ings; but  she  let  him  take  his  time  now,  and  even 
admonished  him  to  silence  when  he  shouted  to  the 
strangers  outside,  that  he  was  doing  his  beet  to 

v  9 


54  THREATENED    EJECTMENT. 

admit  them,   for  she  tolerably  well  divined  that 
their  errand  was  for  no  good. 

At  length  the  door  flew  open,  and  she  received 
Sir  Thomas  Durant,  followed  by  Mr.  Anthony 
Sharpie,  and  the  third  party  of  whom  we  spoke. 

Sharpie  made  an  attempt  at  introducing  his 
patron,  but  he  was  not  regarded,  and  Mrs.  Durant 
haughtily  inquired  from  Sir  Thomas,  to  what  they 
owed  the  honour  of  his  visit?  He  demanded, 
in  reply,  why  he  was  kept  out  of  his  own  house? 

Sir  Thomas,  to  whom  the  place  was  familiar, 
regardless  of  his  sister-in-law's  opposition,  passed 
on  to  the  room  in  which  he  had  seen  the  light. 
Mrs.  Durant  followed  him  as  quickly  as  possible, 
wishing  to  enter  first,  Sharpie  endeavouring  in 
vain  to  detain  her,  speaking  of  "  infinite  regret, 
greatest  possible  esteem,  and  absolute  necessity." 
She,  however,  with  the  utmost  contempt,  flung 
him  from  her,  and  entered  the  door  with  Sir 
Thomas. 

The  uncle  had  never  seen  his  nephew,  but  he 
recognised  the  relationship  instantly  that  Richard 
stood  before  him,  and  demanded  from  him,  in  a 
tone  of  anger  and  authority,  "  why  so  much 
trouble  was  given  him?"  and  then,  motioning  to 
that  third  person  in  the  rear,  a  paper  of  ejectment 
was  put  into  Richard's  hand,  requiring  him  to 
remove  from  the  dwelling-house  of  Stanton- 
Combe,  with  all  his  goods,  chattels,  and  other 
effects,  within  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours. 
Richard  stared  in  utter  amazement — for  it  must 
be  remembered  that  the  probability  of  this  had 
been  kept  from  him.     His  mother,  however,  per- 


THREATENED  EJECTMENT.         55 

*ectly  understood  it,  and,  snatching  the  paper  from 
her  son,  tore  it  into  shreds,  and  faced  the  kins- 
man. 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Durant,"  she  began. 

"  Sir  Thomas,  if  you  please,"  interrupted 
Sharpie,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"  Be  still,  cockatrice  !"  shouted  she,  and  again 
turned  to  her  kinsman.  "  Mr.  Thomas  Durant," 
said  she,  "do  your  worst!  Turn  your  poor 
superannuated  brother  into  the  open  fields,  and 
thank  God  that  it  is  winter,  that  he  may  die  of 
cold  !  Turn  his  children  out  into  the  wide  world, 
and  thank  God  that  you  first  made  them  beggars! 
Do  your  worst !" 

"  Madam,"  began  Sir  Thomas. 

"  Yes,  do  your  worst!"  repeated  she;  "if  you 
can  do  worse  than  make  them  homeless  and 
pennyless !" 

f  Mrs.  Durant,"  said  Sir  Thomas,  with  a  de- 
liberation and  coolness  of  voice  that  elicited 
attention  even  from  her,  "  there  was  a  time  when 
I  was  sent  hence  as  an  intruder — a  pennyless  ad- 
venturer into  the  world  !  Do  you  remember  that  ? 
— most  likely  not — for  the  memory  of  an  injury 
done,  is  like  an  impression  upon  water,  soon 
effaced;  but  an  injury  received,  is  like  a  stone 
thrown  against  a  mirror — the  impression  is  retained 
for  ever !  Do  you  remember,  I  say,  my  going 
pennyless  out  of  this  very  door  ?  No,  no,  you 
don't  remember  it,"  said  he  with  a  bitter  sneer; 
"but  I  do!" 

"  Tom  !  Tom !"  screamed  the  feeble  tenor  of 
the  old  man's  voice;  "  I  know  that  is  Tom  speak- 


56  THREATENED    EJECTMENT. 

ing!  What  does  he  say?  Pennyless! — is  he 
pennyless?  Give  me  your  hand,  Tom  !"  said  he, 
rising,  spite  of  the  efforts  of  his  daughter  to  sooth 
him  and  keep  him  back.  "  Shake  hands  with  me, 
Tom!  shake  hands,  for  it  is  twenty — twenty — 
ay,  it  must  be  twenty  years  since  I  saw  ye  I 
Shake  hands,  Tom  !"  and  his  daughter  supported 
his  feeble  steps  along  the  floor. 

"Keep  him  back!"  said  Sir- Thomas  to  his 
niece. 

"  Did  he  say,  '  keep  me  back,'  Lizzy,  love  ?" 
inquired  he,  looking  into  her  face  with  the  sim- 
plicity of  a  child.  "  Nay,  nay !  I  will  not  be 
kept  back;  am  not  I  glad  to  see  him?  and  I 
could  always  manage  him,  let  him  be  ever  so 
angry  !  Give  me  your  hand — speak  to  me,  bro- 
ther!" said  he,  putting  forth  his  thin,  feeble  hand. 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  of  his  state;  you  should 
not  have  suffered  this !"  said  Sir  Thomas,  in  an 
under  tone,  to  Sharpie. 

"  Brother !"  said  the  poor  old  man,  weeping  like 
a  child;  "and  you  have  been  away  so  long,  and 
yet  come  back  again  angry !  Dear,  dear !  I 
could  not  have  thought  that !  But,  Tom,  I  once 
saved  your  life,  when  you  fell  into  the  mill-dam; 
are  you  still  angry  ?  You  beat  me,  but  I  forgave 
you;  you  told  lies  of  me,  but  I  forgave  you:  I 
always  loved  you ;  and  yet  you  come  back  again 
and  are  angry !" 

The  hard  features  of  Sir  Thomas  relaxed;  and, 
for  the  moment,  he  made  no  attempt  to  withdraw 
the  hand  which  the  other  held;  and  he  again  went 
en. 


THREATENED    EJECTMENT.  57 

"  Did  you  say  you  were  poor,  Tom?  Oh,  if 
you  are  poor  we  will  give  you  money;  my  wife 
will  give  you  money,  for  we  have  plenty.  Are 
you  hungry  ?  We  have  plenty  of  meat  here ! 
Speak  only  one  word  to  me,  Tom.  I  am  an  old 
man  !"  and  he  sobbed  again  like  a  child. 

Elizabeth  wept  too.  Mrs.  Durant  stood  un- 
moved, so  did  Richard;  and  Sir  Thomas  begin- 
ing  to  think  there  had  been  too  much  of  this  scene, 
cast  angry  glances  on  his  sister-in-law,  and  bade 
her  remove  her  husband. 

"  Brother  !"  again  said  he,  resisting  the  efforts 
Elizabeth  made  to  remove  him;  "  Brother,  we 
are  all  glad  to  see  you  !  Mrs.  Durant,"  said  he, 
turning  to  bis  wife,  "  you  are  heartily  glad  to  see 
him — tell  him  so  !  Dick,  make  your  duty  to  your 
uncle !  Lizzy,  love,  this  is  your  uncle  Tom.  I 
have  often  told  you  about  him;  you  mu.->t  love 
him,  Lizzy  !" 

"Father,  father!  say  no  more!"  whispered 
his  daughter,  seeing  plainly  that  her  uncle's  visit 
was  anything  but  one  of  friendship.  "  Come  with 
me,  dearest  father !"  and,  unloosing  his  hands  from 
their  hold  upon  his  brother,  she  endeavoured  to 
lead  him  away. 

"  Husband!"  said  Mrs.  Durant,  seeing  him 
turn  to  go  away  with  his  daughter,  "  this  is  your 
brother,  come  to  rob  your  children  of  their  patri- 
mony ;  come  to  turn  you  and  them  out  of  doors ! 
To  drive  them,"  she  continued,  with  hysterical 
energy,  "  from  house  and  from  home,  from  bed, 
board,  and  fireside !" 

The  old  man  turned  back  again,  and,  lifting  up 


58         THREATENED  EJECTMENT. 

his  feeble  arms,    exclaimed,    "  In  the  face  of 
Heaven,  tell  me,  Tom,  is  it  so  ?" 

Sir  Thomas  Durant  was  pale,  both  with  emo- 
tion and  anger.  "  What  I  have  paid  for,"  said 
he,  "  is  it  not  mine  own  ?  Did  not  thine  own 
hand  sign  the  deed  by  which  this  inheritance  be- 
came mine  ?" 

"  No !  no !  never  !"  screamed  the  old  man. 
"  Never !  I  will  die  rather  than  sell  my  birth- 
right !  Thou  shalt  not  have  it — I  tell  thee  thou 
shalt  not!  I  will  not  sell  my  children's  inheri- 
tance !  I  will  not !   By  Heaven,  I  will  not !' 

"  You  have  done  it  already !"  replied  his  brother. 

"  Have  I  ?"  exclaimed  the  poor  old  man.  "  No, 
I  think  not !  I  love  my  children  too  well.  I  am 
a  feeble  old  man,  I  know;  but  I  should  never  do 
that;  and  I  never  will!"  exclaimed  he;  "and, 
clever  as  you  are,  Tom,  you  shall  never  persuade 
me  to  it !  No,  no !  I  will  not  make  my  children 
beggars  !  and  may  him  that  counsels  it,  and  he 
that  does  it,  perish  in  the  ruin  it  will  bring  !"  At 
this  moment,  exhausted  by  the  violence  of  his  ex- 
citement, he  sunk  back,  and  would  have  fallen, 
had  not  Richard  supported  him,  and  showed  then 
more  kindness  to  his  father  than  he  had  ever  done 
before. 

Sir  Thomas  Durant  was  affected  by  this  inter- 
view; but  he  was  accustomed  to  control  his  feel- 
ings. As  soon,  therefore,  as  his  brother  was 
removed,  vehement  words  passed  between  him 
and  his  nephew,  who  had  known  nothing  of  his 
part  in  the  transaction,  nor  of  the  legal  notice 
which  had  been  sent  to  them,  till  that  very  evening, 


THREATENED  EJECTMENT.        59 

when  Sharpie,  drawing  him  aside,  had  hastily  made 
him  acquainted  with  these  facts.  He  felt  as  if 
he  were  standing  upon  a  gulf  which  was  widening 
below  his  feet;  but  whether  he  was  more  angry 
with  his  mother,  who  had  concealed  these  later 
facts,  or  with  his  uncle,  who  had  thus  treacherously 
entrapped  them,  it  is  impossible  to  tell.  All  was 
uproar  and  confusion;  and  Sir  Thomas  at  length 
made  a  hasty  exit,  glad  to  feel  himself  safe  on  the 
outside  that,  house  which  he  had  been  so  eager  to 
enter  scarcely  an  hour  before.  The  two  had  not, 
however,  reached  the  door-steps  when  Sharpie 
returned  to  say  that  he  and  Sir  Thomas  should 
remain  at  the  Durant  Arms  for  the  next  four-and- 
twenty  houl-s. 

Poor  Mrs.  Durant  thought  now  indeed  that  the 
cup  of  her  troubles  was  full  to  overflowing,  and 
especially  as  her  son  would  not  appreciate  the 
motives  of  kindness  which  had  kept  these  threat- 
ened evils  from  his  knowledge.  It  was  in  vain 
that  she  protested  that  no  power  on  earth  should 
compel  them  to  leave;  that  they  would  go  to  law 
about  it;  that  she  would  spend  the  last  farthing 
she  could  raise  in  defending  her  son's  right. 
Richard  was  at  first  pale  with  passion,  and  cast 
upon  her  the  most  unkind  upbraidings,  and  then 
sunk  into  sullen  anger,  and  paced  about  the  room 
till  past  midnight,  without  vouchsafing  her  either 
word  or  look. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  unhappy  woman,  when  she  was 
left  alone,  "  I  can  bear  all  but  this.  To  be  re- 
proached  by  him! — by  him   for  wrhom  I  have 


GO  A    REAL    EJECTMENT 

done  so  much! — between  whom  and  trouble  I 
have  always  stood !  This  is,  indeed,  the  bitterest 
of  my  sorrows  I" 


CHAPTER   VII. 


A    REAL    EJECTMENT. 


Mr.  Durant  was  put  to  bed  in  a  state  of  in- 
sensibility; and  Elizabeth,  not  choosing  to  leave 
his  apartment,  sat  down  by  the  fire.  She  was 
oppressed  by  the  saddest  feelings — anxiety  for  her 
father,  and  an  imperfect  comprehension  of  the 
nature  of  her  uncle's  visit.  Some  great  sorrow 
she  was  sure  hung  over  them,  which  was  even 
more  apparent  from  the  mystery  that  involved  it. 

The  most  profound  silence  reigned  in  the  house 
for  some  time  after  Sir  Thomas's  departure,  in 
which  the  sound  of  her  mother  and  brother's 
voices,  in  angry  disputation,  reached  even  that 
remote  chamber.  From  time  to  time  she  stole  to 
the  bedside  to  see  how  it  fared  with  her  father; 
but  though  he  was  evidently  ill,  from  the  excite- 
ment of  the  evening,  he  appeared  to  sleep  calmly. 

She  sat  by  the  fire,  hoping  that  before  long  her 
mother,  whose  chamber  adjoined  her  father's, 
would  look  in  upon  them  before  she  retired  for 
the  night.  But  the  hour  of  her  usual  bed-time 
passed,  and  no  one  came.  Poor  Mrs.  Durant 
never  thought  of  sleep  that  night ;  and  still  Eliza- 
beth sat  alone,  listening  in  that  state  of  intense 


A    REAL    EJECTMENT.  61 

excitement,  when  the  Matcher  seems  to  become  all 
nerve,  alive  to  every  sound,  and  when  the  vision 
swarms  with  fantastic  images. 

At  length  the  voices  of  contention  had  ceased; 
all  was  profoundly  still;  then  steps  seemed  passing 
about  hurriedly  below;  doors  opened  and  shut 
hastily;  occasionally  voices  were  heard,  and  then 
all  again  sank  into  the  same  dead  stillness. 

Again  and  again  Elizabeth  stole  to  the  bed; 
turned  the  curtain  slowly  aside,  and  looked  in  upon 
him,  but  he  still  slept.  In  that  deep  silence  the 
great  cluck  of  the  cupola  tolled  one,  with  a  solemn, 
startling  sound  that  seemed  appalling;  it  Mas  like  a 
knell,  and  it  flung  upon  her  soul  an  awful  sense 
of  death,  and  solitude,  and  desertion.  She  com- 
mended herself  to  Heaven,  and  tried  to  reassure 
herself  that,  let  human  fortune  gloom  as  it  may, 
all  are  still  in  the  hands  of  the  Eternal  Father. 
"  God  is  about  us,"  said  she,  "  when  M-e  are  most 
forlorn  !"  and  falling  on  her  knees  at  her  father's 
bedside,  besought  the  protection  of  Heaven  for 
them  both. 

She  arose  strengthened  and  assured,  and  began 
to  think  of  settling  herself  for  the  night  in  the 
large  easy  chair  which  stood  upon  the  hearth, 
when  Bridget,  an  old  servant,  entered.  There 
was  a  curious  mixture  of  trouble,  indignation,  and 
important  business  in  her  countenance.  She  sat 
down  on  a  low  seat  opposite  to  Elizabeth,  and, 
placing  her  palms  flat  upon  her  knees,  leaned  for- 
M-ard,  with  her  elbows  projecting  outward,  in  her 
attitude  of  interminable  talk. 

«  Lord,  Miss !"  she  began,  "  and  all  this  to 
o 


62  A    REAL    EJECTMENT. 

happen  of  a  Monday  night !  If  it  had  been  a 
Friday,  no  wonde,..  Fridays  are  always  unlucky! 
And  so  we  are  all  to  go  afore  morning!  Chris- 
tians and  brutes;  live  stock  and  dead;  furniture, 
linen,  and  plate;  beds,  bedding,  china,  and  glass; 
and  no  thought  taken  for  the  breakage  and  the 
smashery  !  Lauk,  Miss  !  it  would  take  a  month  to 
pack  them  as  they  ought  to  be  packed.  And  the 
pictures,  and  the  books,  and  the  looking-glasses," 
continued  she,  as  if  she  had  been  reading  from  a 
catalogue;  "  and  the  harpsichord,  and  the  knick- 
knackery,  and  the  stone- ware  figures  (statues,) 
as  came  out  o'  foreign  parts,  how  are  they  all 
to  be  got  away  in  four-and-tvventy  hours?  that's 
what  I  should  like  to  know !  But  no,  thank  ye, 
there's  no  thought  taken  for  nothing !  Out  all 
must  be   turned,    and   leave    nothing   but   bare 

walls !" 

"  You  must  be  mistaken,  Bridget,"  said  Eliza- 
beth. 

«  Not  I !"  replied  she.  "  Not  I,  indeed,  M»ss 
Elizabeth.  And  if  master  should  die,  as  like 
enough  he  will,  for  we  have  had  winding-sheets 
in  candles,  and  a  matter  of  ten  death-watches  in 
the  house  all  within  the  last  month;  why,  then,  I 
should  like  to  know  who  has  been  the  death  of 

him  ?" 

"  My  poor  father  1"  sighed  Elizabeth. 

"  And  only  to  think,"  said  Bridget,  "  that  it 
was  his  own  brother — them  that  were  children 
together  in  this  very  house — little  innocent  child- 
ren I  And  now  here  he  comes  cursing  and  swear- 
ing! I  wonder  he  warn't  ashamed,  and  he  the 


A    REAL    EJECTMENT.  63 

younger  brother !  Lord  help  us  !  and  they  say 
as  how  he  has  got  all  made  over  to  himself,  and 
that  neither  Mr.  Richard  nor  the  master  there 
can  touch  a  penny  !  Nothing  is  their's,  say  they, 
but  what  the  house  holds;  and  I  should  like  to 
know  what  household  stuff  is  good  for  when  there's 
no  longer  a  house  to  hold  it !  Bless  me !  and 
what  is  to  become  of  all — live  stock  and  dead ! 
say  nothing  of  the  family,  nor  any  of  us  that  have 
spent  our  lives  in  its  service,  and  have  neither 
kin  to  welcome  us,  nor  house  to  cover  us?  I 
should  like  to  know  what's  to  become  of  us,  Miss 
Elizabeth  ! 

"  Alas !"  said  Elizabeth,  with  a  deep  sigh,  and 
eyes  full  of  tears. 

"  Why,  now,"  said  Bridget,  "  what  an  old  fool 
I  am  to  come  here  troubling  you;  for,  Heaven 
knows,  there  never  was  a  kinder  heart  than  your's: 
that  there  never  Mas  !" 

"  But  will  not  my  brother  resist  this  aggression 
of  my  uncle's  ?"  asked  Elizabeth,  "  and  my  mo- 
ther, too  ?" 

"  Lord,  Miss  !"  replied  Bridget,  "  things  seem 
to  me  to  have  ta'en  a  turn  quite  right  about,  for 
there's  been  Madam  and  Mr.  Richard  at  high 
words  for  these  hours." 

"  It  is  very  strange!"  said  Elizabeth,  scarcely 
knowing  what  to  say. 

"  Strange  enough,"  said  Bridget;  "  but  Eve 
that  to  tell  which  is  strangest  of  all.  The  piece  of 
armour  that  belonged  to  my  Lord  Viscount,  and 
stood  in  the  gallery,  has  fallen  to  the  ground  1  It 
fell  from  its  place  as  Mr.  Thomas — Sir  Thomas 


64  A    REAL    EJECTMENT. 

they  call  him— slammed  the  hall-door  in  going 
out.     Every  soul  in  the   house,  except  Madam 
and  Mr.  Richard,  has  been  to  see  it;  and,  what 
makes  it  more  stranger  still,  this  very  piece  of 
armour  fell  down,  the  very  night,  may  be,  nve- 
and-twenty  years  since;  nay,  more  than  five-and- 
twenty — likelier   thirty    years    since— when    this 
same  Sir  Thomas,  a  young  man  then,  quarrelled 
with  the  master  that  lies  in  his  bed  there,  and  set 
off,  Heaven  knows  where,  and  never  entered  the 
place  till  this  night,  when  he  is  come  to  bring 
ruin  and  trouble  to  every  one.     It  is  a  strange 
thin",  Miss  Elizabeth,  a  mighty  strange  thing  . 

"It  is,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  a  strange  and  melan- 
choly thing  altogether.  My  heart  aches  with  ap- 
prehension !" 

«  No  wonder,  poor  dear  !"  said  the  old  woman, 
«  no  wonder !  And  if  we  are  all  to  be  turned 
out  of  house  and  borne,  I  should  like  to  know 
where  we  are  all  to  go.  Times  are  not  what 
they  used  to  be,  when  there  was  money  for  the 
asking !  I  warrant  me,  Madam  never  thought 
to  see  the  day  when  we  might  want  a  mouthful  ot 

bread!"  .  , 

Elizabeth  made  no  reply,  for  then  a  deep  sigh., 
and  the  feeble  voice  of  her  father,  arrested  her 
attention.  She  stood  beside  him  instantly,  and 
bent  over  his  pillow. 

«  God  bless  you,  Lizzy  love!  said  he,  you 
are  my  only  comfort !" 

«  My  dearest  father !"  replied  she,  deeply 
affected  by  the  solemnity  of  his  manner. 

»  You  never   grieved   me !     You  are  all  the 


A    REAL    EJECTMENT.  65 

comfort  I  ever  had,"  repeated  he,  "  and  may  God 
Almighty  bless  you  !" 

These  consoling  but  solemn  words  overcame  her 
already  excited  feelings,  and  she  wept  while  she 
aflectionately  kissed  his  hand. 

"  Thank  God  !"  she  at  length  said,  "  you  are 
better !" 

Again  and  again  she  spoke;  but,  though  her 
father's  eye  appeared  fixed  on  her  countenance,  she 
received  no  answer.  Bridget  brought  the  lamp 
to  the  bedside,  and  they  saw  that,  though  still 
alive,  a  great  change  had  passed  over  him:  he 
was  speechless. 

"  Call  mother!"  whispered  Elizabeth,  alarmed 
and  distressed,  "  and  bid  her  come  instantly  !" 

The  old  woman  obeyed,  and  presently  returned. 

"  Lord  love  you  !"  said  she,  "  Madam  is  crying 
by  herself,  in  the  great  parlour.  I  never  saw  such 
a  sight  before.  I  spoke  twice  before  she  heard 
me,  and  then  she  was  mighty  angry.  '  And  can't 
you  give  him  a  drop  of  wine,'  says  she,  '  without 
disturbing  me?' " 

"  My  poor,  dear  father!  my  beloved  father  !" 
sobbed  Elizabeth,  and  turned  away  from  the  bed. 
The  old  man's  eyes  followed  her,  and  an  indistinct 
sound  was  heard,  as  of  an  attempt  to  speak. 
Again  she  bent  over  him;  and  the  old  woman 
prepared  such  stimulants  as  were  at  their  com- 
mand. Elizabeth  took  the  cold,  feeble  hands  and 
rubbed  them  in  hers;  she  laid  her  Avarm  cheek  to 
his;  and  Bridget,  the  forty  years'  nurse  of  the 
family,  employed  all  her  skill  to  recovei  him. 
But  it  was  too  late.      Life  was  no   further  ex- 

o  2 


66  A    REAL    EJECTMENT. 

hibited  than  by  the  lingering  and  affectionate 
expression  of  the  eyes.  The  last  sentiment  of  the 
dying  man  was  grateful  affection  to  the  dutiful 
daughter,  who  had  been  a  joy  to  him  through  the 
whole  of  her  life,  and  who  now  was  the  comfort 
of  his  death-bed. 

It  was  not  till  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  that 
Elizabeth  could  indeed  believe  her  father  to  be 
dead;  but  then  the  pallid  and  fallen  countenance, 
and  the  glazed  eye,  forced  the  melancholy  truth 
upon  her.  She  burst  forth  into  no  loud  lamenta- 
tion, and  yet  her  desolate  situation,  her  friendless 
and  forlorn  state,  the  one  who  had  loved  her  most 
lying  dead  before  her,  all  fell  upon  her  spirit  with 
a  chill  that  almost  overwhelmed  her. 

When  Bridget  went  down  to  communicate  the 
death  of  Mr.  Durant  to  his  wife,  she  found  her 
still  sitting  where  she  had  left  her,  not  weeping;  the 
agony  of  her  grief  had  subsided,  for  it  was  only  the 
moment  of  extremest  suffering  that  could  wring 
tears  from  Mrs.  Durant;  but  she  sat  pale,  and  as 
if  stupified  by  deep  thought. 

"  Master  is  dead !"  said  Bridget,  without  pre- 
face of  any  kind. 

"  Dead!"  repeated  the  lady,  with  something  like 
a  shudder.  "  God  rest  his  soul !"  and,  putting  her 
hands  before  her  face,  Bridget  declared  that  she 
wept;  that  Madam  Durant  had  wept  twice  in  one 
night ! 

"  Dead  I"  repeated  Mrs.  Durant  to  herself,  soon 
after  Bridget  was  gone;  "  then,  at  least,  we  must 
have  time"  to  bury  him !  With  a  corpse  in  the 
bouse  we  may  defy  his  ejectment.     We  will  have 


rAMILY    AFFAIRS.  67 

time  for  the  burial;  and  I  will  have  a  funera; 
which  shall  collect  about  us  all  our  friends  and 
neighbours.  I'll  make  the  country  cry  shame  on 
the  man  who  oppressed  the  family  of  his  dead 
brother !" 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


FAMILY   AFFAIRS. 


At  day  break  the  tolling  of  the  church-bell  an- 
nounced to  the  villagers  the  death  of  Mr.  Durant; 
and  Anthony  Sharpie,  who  was  stirring  early, 
carried  up-  the  tidings  of  this  unlooked-for  event 
to  Sir  Thomas  in  his  bed. 

"  It  is  a  device  of  that  artful  woman's,"  said  he; 
"  the  old  man  is  alive :  as  much  alive  as  I  am," 
continued  he,  rising  in  his  bed. 

"  I  dare  swear  it !"  returned  the  acquiescent 
Sharpie. 

"  But  I  will  not  be  defeated !  I  will  not  be 
played  with  !  and  without  bona  fide  evidence  of 
his  natural  death,  the  ejectment  shall  be  enforced  ! 
I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of!"  said  Sir  Thomas: 
"  send  me  my  valet  instantly;  I  will  rise!" 

Sharpie  did  as  he  was  ordered;  and,  while  his 
patron  dressed,  walked  into  the  village  to  gather 
up  opinions  as  to  the  supposed  death  of  the  master 
of  Stanton-Combe. 

Everywhere  he  found  people  engaged  in  talk- 
ing over  the  strange  events  of  the  night  preced- 
ing, rumours  of  which  had  come  down  from  the 


68  FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 

hall  to  the  village.  Old  men  and  women  were 
relating  anecdotes  of  the  boyhood  of  the  two 
brothers.  "  Ay,  he  was  a  fiery,  hot-headed  man, 
that  Thomas  Durant !"  "  Desperate  clever,"  said 
another,  "  but  desperate  proud,  and  loved  by  no- 
body !" 

"  Now,  him  as  is  dead,"  said  a  third,  "  had  a 
right  kind  heart  of  his  own,  though  his  head  was 
none  of  the  strongest.  He'd  have  given  a  poor 
man  the  last  shilling  he  had  in  the  world !" 

"  I  mind  me  when  he  was  a  boy,"  said  a  very 
old  man,  with  thin,  white  hair,  and  who  leaned  on 
two  sticks;  "  I  mind  me  when  he  was  as  pretty 
a  boy  as  you'd  see  on  a  summer's  day  I  He 
gathered  nettle-tops  and  green  yarbs  (herbs)  for 
my  Sammy,  as  died  of  a  waste !  Lord-a-me ! 
and  he's  dead,  ye  say  !" 

"  Ay,  Neddy,"  said  another,  "  dead,  sure 
enough !  and  his  own  brother,  as  one  may  say, 
the  death  of  him  !" 

"  Hey  !  hey !"  returned  the  older  man,  "  it's 

a  wicked  world  we  live  in,  a  very  wicked  world !" 

"  And  say  ye,"  asked  a  woman,    "  that   this 

London  lawyer,  this  Sir  Thomas,  is  come  to  take 

possession  of  Stanton-Combe,  in  his  own  right?" 

"  Never,  never ;"  returned  the  very  old  man, 

putting  his  two  sticks  into  one  hand,  and  turning 

his  other  on  his  hip,  to  enable  him  the  better  to 

look  the  speaker  in  the  face ;  "  never,  I  say ;  for 

it  was   all  tied  upon  heirs  male.     But  he's  a  bad 

man,  that  Thomas,   as   I've  heard  say,  without 

conscience;  and  Anthony  Sharpie's  no  better  !" 

At  that  moment   Sharpie  was   seen    amongsi 


FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 


69 


them;  and  those  who  thought  he  had  not  heard 
made'  their  bow,  as  to  the  satellite  of  the  rising 
sun ;  and  they  who  believed  the  contrary,  made  the 
best  of  their  way  off,  shrugging  their  shoulders. 
Presently  after  this  encounter,  Sharpie  found  old 
Bridget,  who  had  volunteered  to  Mrs.  Durant  the 
carrying    of   a    message    to  the  undertaker    and 
coffin-maker,  in  order  that  she  might  unburden 
herself  of  the  news  she  was  able  to  tell.     Through 
her  Sharpie  learned  how  Madam  Durant  and  the 
young  master  had  quarrelled;  not  that  Bridget  had 
any  direct  communication  with  him,   but  as  he 
stood  within  the  inn  yard,  he  listened  to  the  gossip 
she  held  with  a  couple  of  old  crones. 

«  Misfortune's  a-coming  !"  said  Bridget;  "we  ve 
had  nought  but  signs  of  late— coffins,  and  winding- 
sheets;  and  such  a  croaking  of  ravens,  and  screech- 
ing of  owls  !  Such  things  never  bode  ^  good  ! 
Lauk-a-me  !  such  a  night  as  I  have  had  !" 

"  And  so,  the  old  master  is  dead !"  said  one  of 
the  gossips. 

«  Sure,  is  he !  replied  Bridget,  "  and  no  won- 
der neither,  so  as  he  was  turmoiled  over  night !" 
"  Well,   but  Mrs.  Bridget,"  asked  the  other, 
is  it  true  you're  going  away  at  a  minute's  warn- 

in0,  i 
°"  There  is  neither  law  nor  justice  in  it  1"  said 

the  other. 

«  Neither  is  there!"  said  Bridget;  "and  a  team 
of  horses  won't  move  Madam,  if  it  be  not  her  will. 
But  ye  see,  the  old  master  has  died  lucky  just 
bow;  there  must  be  time  to  bury  him.     Madam 


70  FAMILY   AFFAIRS. 

would  raise  heaven  and  earth,  but  she  would  have 
a  burying;  and  a  grand  funeral  we  shall  have  !" 

"  What !  the  body  laid  in  state,  like  the  old 
Durants  of  former  times  ?"  asked  one  old  woman. 

"  Sure,"  said  Bridget;  "they  were  getting  the 
state-room  ready  when  I  left;  and  I  have  sent 
Thomas  Doleman  and  all  his  people  up,  to  take 
measure  for  the  coffin,  and  to  see  to  the  hanging 
the  walls.     It  will  be  a  fine  sight,  I  promise  ye !" 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  her  companion;  "I  re- 
member, more  nor  forty  years  ago,  how  a  body 
lay  in  state  there;  all  hung  with  black  cloth  was 
the  room,  at  seven  shillings  by  the  yard;  and  the 
funeral  train  reached  from  the  Hall  to  the  church; 
there  were  seven-and-fifty  blood-relations,  all  on 
horseback,  in  black  cloaks  and  hat-bands !" 

"Forty  years  ago!"  interrupted  the  other; 
"  that  was  seventy  years  ago !  It  was  the  grand- 
father of  him  that  is  now  dead,  Walter  Durant; 
him  as  the  king  sent  into  Germany:  I  was  a 
young  lass  then  !" 

"  Oh,  well!"  returned  the  other,  "but  there 
will  be  no  such  funeral  now.  Things  ar'n't  as  they 
were  then  !" 

"  Lord  bless  you  !  but  it  will  be  a  handsome 
funeral,  though,"  said  Bridget,  alarmed  for  the 
honour  of  the  house  ;  "  Madam  will  have  it  hand- 
some, were  it  only  to  spite  'em.  There'll  be  the 
lying  in  state  seven  days,  wax-lights  burning,  all 
the  country  bid;  gloves,  and  scarfs,  and  hat- 
bands; burying-cake,  and  plenty  of  cold  meat 
and  drink  I     What  more  would  ye  have  ?" 


FAMILY    AFFAIRS.  71 

All  this  Anthony  Sharpie  heard,  and  was  con- 
vinced by  it  that  the  death  was  real;  but  as  he 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  contradicting  his  patron, 
and  Sir  Thomas  chose  to  believe  it  only  a  pre- 
tence in  order  to  gain  time,  or  to  throw  odium 
upon  him,  Sharpie  likewise  pretended  to  acquiesce, 
and  promised  to  ascertain  the  fact,  even  by  ob- 
taining, if  needful,  a  sight  of  the  body,  dead  or 
alive. 

After  Richard  Durant  and  his  mother  had 
parted  in  anger,  as  we  related  in  our  last  chapter, 
he  went  to  bed,  and  while  there  began  to  revolve 
various  plans  for  his  own  conduct,  independent  of 
his  mother.  Sharpie  and  he  had  been  boon  com- 
panions in'London,  and  he  flattered  himself  that 
he  possessed  influence  with  him,  through  which 
the  orignal  promise  of  his  remaining  on  the  estate 
might  be  secured.  He  determined  also  to  try  his 
influence  with  his  uncle,  especially  as  his  resent- 
ment was  strong  against  his  mother;  and  he  blamed 
her  as  the  cause  of  all  their  troubles.  "  It  was 
all  the  consequence,"  reasoned  he,  "  of  trusting 
important  affairs  to  a  woman;  he  would,  he  de- 
termined, take  the  management  of  everything  into 
his  own  hands."  His  groom  had  brought  him  the 
news  of  his  father's  death,  and  that  strengthened 
his  determination  still  further.  They  could  not 
be  ejected  from  the  premises  while  the  corpse 
remained  uninterred,  and  this  would  give  him 
time;  besides,  by  his  death,  he  was  legally  master 
of  all;  no  longer  Mr.  Richard,  but  Mr.  Durant. 

Richard's  plans   were    undefined,    but   all  his 
wishes  tended  towards  conciliation  ;  when,  an  hour 


72  FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 

after  breakfast,  he  set  out  on  his  way  to  the 
Durant  Arms.  Midway,  however,  between  the 
village  and  the  Hall,  he  met  Sharpie,  who,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  been  despatched  by  Sir  Thomas  to 
ascertain  the  truth  respecting  the  death  of  Lis 
brother. 

When  Anthony  Sharpie  saw  Richard  approach- 
ing, he  put  on  a  solemn  countenance,  and  affected 
a  tone  of  condolence,  saying  that  he  was  extremely 
sorry  to  hear  of  the  event  of  the  night;  "but," 
added  he.  "  the  gentleman  was  old;  the  shock 
could  not  have  been  great  to  his  family,  though 
the  time,  certainly,  was  unlucky." 

Richard  in  his  turn  assumed  an  air  of  distance, 
and,  with  a  voice  much  more  subdued  than  com- 
mon, and  which  might  have  imposed  upon  one 
less  skilled  in  worldly  knowledge  than  Sharpie, 
said  he  was  penetrated  with  sorrow  for  the  loss  of 
his  father.  "  His  father's  death,"  he  said,  "  had 
no  doubt  been  caused  by  the  violence  of  the  last 
night;  that  he  himself  was  overwhelmed  by  it; 
that  his  was  a  hard  case,  a  cruel  case ;  and  that 
he  was  a  very  ill-used  man;  especially  as  his 
mother  had  kept  all  latter  transactions  from  his 
knowledge;  but  that  he  hoped  he  and  his  uncle 
might  come  to  terms;  that  he  did!  And  for  his 
part,  he  would  be  glad  to  leave  all  in  his  uncle's 
hands,  who  was,  he  was  sure,  a  man  of  honour." 

Sharpie  looked  into  Richard's  face  with  some 
curiosity;  and  he  wondered  how  much  of  all  this 
was  really  true.  But  Richard  seemed  to  wait  for 
Sharpie's  answer,  and  he  therefore  spoke. 

"  He  had  been  sent  up  by  Sir  Thomas,"  h« 


FAMILY    AFFAIRS.  73 

said,  to  ascertain  if  the  report  were  true;  not 
that  he  himself  doubted  it  for  a  moment,  but  Sir 
Thomas  was  supicious:"  and  Sharpie  shrug- 
ged his  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say,  he  did  not 
approve  of  suspicion;  "  but,  such  being  the  case,"' 
he  continued,  "  it  would  be  extremely  satisfactory 
if  he  could  have  a  sight  of  the  body." 

Richard  felt  half  disposed  to  resent  this  as  an 
insult;  but  as  he  was  hoping  to  gain  his  own  ad- 
vantage, he  merely  replied  that  Sharpie  might 
see  the  body,  and  welcome,  if  it  could  do  him  anv 
good;  and  'ed  the  way  back  to  the  house. 

Richard  marshalled  him  up  the  grand  stair-case 
to  the  state-room,  for  he  had  heard  of  his  mother's 
design  of* the  grand  funeral,  and  knew  the  body 
to  be  there.  The  house  was  profoundly  still,  like 
the  house  of  death;  no  servants  met  them  on  the 
stairs,  and  even  the  hard  nature  of  Sharpie  felt  as 
if  his  were  a  sacrilegious  visit.  The  solitude  and 
silence,  however,  of  the  house  was  not  peculiar  to 
this  day:  we  know  what  a  deserted  place  it  was: 
but  at  this  particular  time  the  few  inhabitants, 
with  the  exception  of  Elizabeth,  were  all  met  in 
one  room,  as  we  shall  presently  see. 

Mrs.  Durant  having  conceived  the  idea  of  the 
lying  in  state,  immediately  set  about  preparations 
for  it  with  all  the  energy  of  her  character.  Bridget 
and  old  Simon,  and  the  two  other  servants,  were 
ordered  to  attend  her  in  the  state-room,  upon  the 
lofty  bed  of  which  the  corpse  had  just  been  laid, 
stretch(  (1  on  a  board  and  covered  with  a  sheet. 
Thomas  Doleman,  the  undertaker,  had  been  down; 
and,  as  Mrs.  Durant  wished  to  practise  economy 

H 


74  FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 

at  the  same  time  that  she  made  an  imposing  show, 
she  determined  to  make  use  of  every  available 
article  that  the  house  contained,  on  the  occasion. 
Now  it  happened,  that  on  some  former  occasion  of 
a  costly  funeral,  a  quantity  of  black  cloth  had 
been  put  by,  as  also  a  velvet  pall,  black  plumes, 
and  various  other  paraphernalia  of  costly  mourn- 
ing.    Thomas   Doleman  had  engaged  to   do  all 
that  was  requisite,  and  had  returned  to  his  own 
house  for  the  purpose  of  preparation;  in  the  mean 
time  the  lady  and  her  attendants  had  ransacked 
the  ancient  stores  of  the  family.     In  this  room, 
and  about  this  business,  accordingly  they  were 
busied,    when    Richard    and    Anthony    Sharpie 
entered.     There  were  all  lengths  and  breadths  of 
cloth,  dusty  and  moth-eaten,  scattered  about;  and 
already  had  a  hanging  of  black,  in  which  three 
ominous  rents  were  conspicuous,  been  fastened  to 
the  wall,   as  if  in  trial  of  its  effect.     The  chairs 
were  burdened  with  various  articles    of  female 
mourning,  part  of  the  wardrobe  of  some  grand- 
mother, or  great-aunt,  which  this  funeral  search  had 
now  only  brought  to  light.     There  was  something 
ludicrous,  and  yet  melancholy,  in  all  these  forlorn 
efforts  at  miserable  grandeur,  in  the  very  presence 
of  the  senseless  dead.     There  was  a  strange  con- 
trast, too,  in  the  eager  business-like  faces  of  the 
living,  and  the  strong  rigidity  of  the  corpse,  the 
outline  of  whose  figure  was  visible  under  its  linen 
covering. 

Had  that  body  risen  up  and  spoken,  the  con- 
sternation could  not  have  been  greater  to  the  living, 
than  that  caused  by  the  entrance  of  Richard  and 


FAMILY   AFFAIRS.  75 

his  companion.  Mrs.  Durant  dropped  the  plumes 
she  had  been  shaking,  and  experienced  such  a 
pang  at  her  heart  as  a  dagger's  point  might  have 
occasioned,  in  the  anguish  of  seeing  her  son  violate 
the  privacy  of  that  chamber,  in  friendly  alliance 
with  their  cunning  enemy ;  and,  with  a  countenance 
in  which  surprise  and  anger  were  about  equally 
blended,  she  advanced  three  steps  to  meet  them. 

"  Is  it  for  your  pleasure,  Mr.  Durant,"  said  she, 
addressing  her  son,  "that  this  man  conies  here? 
If  it  be,  I  have  but  one  word  for  both  of  ye — 
begone !" 

"  Mr.  Sharpie  would  know  of  a  certainty,"  said 
Richard,  "  that  my  father  is  dead.  The  body  is 
here,"  said  he  to  Sharpie,  pointing  to  the  bed,  and 
going  forward  as  if  about  to  raise  the  covering. 

"  Touch  it  at  your  peril !  lay  finger  on  the. 
dead  man,  an'  you  dare  !"  exclaimed  she,  furiously 

"What  am  I  to  infer?"  asked  Sharpie,  turning 
towards  Richard  :  "  that  it  is  a  mere  feint?" 

"  Suppose  what  you  list !"  replied  the  lady ; 
"  but  be  sure  of  one  thing — in  three  seconds  you 
shall  be  pitched  from  the  window.  Simon!  clear 
the  rcom  of  this  fellow !"  said  she  to  the  strong 
old  man,  who,  with  nails  and  a  hammer  in  his 
hand,  stood  by  in  gaping  wonder. 

"  Madam  !"  said  Richard,  taking  hold  of  her, 
"  stand  by,  and  let  Mr.  Sharpie  see  the  body ; 
stand  by,  or  worse  may  come  of  it!" 

But  Anthony  Sharpie  had  seen  enough;  and, 
fearing  that  some  violence  might  be  done  to  his 
person,  was  already  outside  the  door;  and  Richard, 
seeing  him  gone,  followed  also. 


<  6  FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 

Sharpie  waited  for  no  apology,  n<>  explanation, 
but,  hearing  a  step  behind  him,  and  not  knowing 
exactly  whether  Richard  was  friendly  or  no,  and 
apprehensive  lest  the  lady's  threat  was  about  to 
be  enforced,  made  his  escape  at  full  speed  down 
the  stairs,  nor  would  have  been  overtaken  at  all, 
but  at  length  he  became  bewildered  with  turnings 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  and,  between  con- 
fusion and  despair,  faced  about  to  see  who  pur- 
sued. Richard  was  half  ready  to  laugh ;  for  while 
Sharpie  assumed  a  tone  of  offended  dignity,  it  was 
plain  that  he  was  almost  frightened  to  death.  He 
looked  grave,  however,  and,  remembering  he  had 
yet  his  own  turn  to  serve,  offered  some  apology 
for  his  mother's  vehemence,  gave  the  most  solemn 
assurance  of  his  father's  death,  which  the  other, 
however,  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  doubt,  and  said 
he  would  accompany  him  to  the  inn,  in  order  that 
he  might  have  an  interview  with  his  uncle. 

The  attendants  wondered  that  no  outbreak  of 
indignation,  or  threat  of  vengeance,  followed  the 
departure  of  the  intruders;  but  Mrs.  Durant  was 
suffering  more  intense  agony  of  spirit  than  could 
vent  itself  in  words.  She  mechanically  took  up 
the  plumes  she  had  thrown  down,  shook  the  dust 
from  them,  and  went  through  the  examination  of 
cloth  and  velvet,  but  her  head  was  no  longer  in 
the  work;  her  earnestness  and  vivacity  were  gone. 
Insult  and  defiance  had  been  thrown  in  her  very 
teeth  by  the  idolized  being  for  whom  she  had 
cared,  and  toiled,  and  suffered,  and  for  whom  she 
could  do  even  more  than  this  yet !  Her  very 
soul  seemed  sick  within  her.    She  gave  her  orders 


FAMILY    AFFAIRS.  77 

at  random;  one  moment  a  thing  was  to  be  done, 
the  next  to  be  undone,  till,  perplexed  and  be- 
wildered, the  servants  talked  to  each  other,  won- 
dering what  it  meant. 

"  Leave  it,  Simon,  for  the  present,"  at  length 
said  the  unhappy  lady ;  "  close  the  shutters,  and 
let  the  black  candles  be  lighted  !" 

"  With  your  leave,  madam,"  remarked  Bridget, 
"  common  candles  will  do  till  the  room  is  hung; 
no  one  will  be  admitted  till  all  is  finished." 

"  Leave  it,"  she  replied,  "  leave  it  altogether, 
for  the  present.  I  will  ring  for  you  when  I  want 
you." 

The  servants  left  her;  and  the  strong  woman, 
whose  frame  was  like  that  of  a  man,  and  whose 
courage,  and  decision,  and  fortitude,  could  have 
borne  her  through  any  other  trial  and  privation, 
wrung  her  hands  and  wept  passionately. 

"  Oh,  my  son  !"  she  exclaimed,  "how  have  I 
been  deceived !  how  have  I  been  wounded  by 
you  ?  I  never  thought  to  see  this  day,  when  I 
nursed  you  on  my  knees,  when  I  carried  you  in 
my  arms !  Oh,  my  little  curly-headed  Dick ! 
my  beautiful  boy,  whom  I  loved  so  dearly,  and 
watched  over  night  and  day,  and  toiled  for  as 
never  mother  did  before !  Now  I  know  what  it 
is  to  be  unfortunate  !  now  I  know  what  it  is  to  be 
wretched,  and  poor;  for  the  loss  of  affection  is 
worse  than  the  loss  of  houses  and  land  !"  And 
again  she  wept,  and  even  groaned  aloud  in  the 
agony  of  her  spirit. 

The  singular  demeanour  of  Mrs.  Durant  had 
excited  the  notice  of  her  servants,  and  Bridget 

Hi 


78  FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 

hobbled  into  the  parlour  to  relate  it  to  Eliza- 
beth. 

"  Lord,  Miss  !"  began  she,  "  something  strange 
has  happened  to  Madam  !" 

"  How  !  what  ?"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  terrified 
with  a  hundred  fears. 

"  Why,  there  is  she  taking  on  so  in  the  state- 
room, where  the  master  lies,  as  though  her  heart 
would  break.  I  have  been  to  the  door  three 
times,  and  you  may  hear  her  groaning  outside; 
but  it's  all  along  of  Mr.  Richard!" 

"  Poor  mother !"  said  Elizabeth, "  I  will  go  to  her." 

Elizabeth  paused  a  moment  ere  she  entered; 
and,  as  Bridget  had  said,  the  sounds  of  her  mo- 
ther's grief  were  audible,  and  the  kind-hearted 
girl  rushed  in,  eager  to  comfort  or  aid  her.  Mrs. 
Durant  sat  on  a  couch  in  the  room,  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  and  sending  forth  low  groans 
which  expressed  deeper  anguish  than  words. 
Elizabeth  closed  the  door  after  her,  but  the  sound 
did  not  rouse  her;  and,  fearing  that  her  mother 
might  be  displeased  to  have  any  witness  of  her 
emotion,  she  hastened  to  make  her  aware  of  her 
presence. 

"  Dearest  mother !"  said  she,  touching  her 
shoulder  lightly,  "  dearest  mother !  what  ails 
you  ?  what  can  I  do  to  comfort  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Durant  looked  at  her  daughter  like  one 
roused  from  a  lethargy,  and  inquired,  in  a  stern 
voice,  "  Who  sent  for  you,  child  ?" 

"  I  feared  you  were  ill;  I  see  you  are  unhappy: 
what  can  I  do  for  you?"  asked  her  daughter,  with 
the  utmost  kindness  of  manner. 


FAMILY    AFFAIRS.  76 

**  What  business  have  you,  child,  to  think  me 
inhappy  ?"  demanded  the  mother;  "  when  I  want 
you,  I  shall  srnd  for  you." 

"  Oh  I"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  unappalled  by  her 
mother's  anger,  and  excited  to  the  deepest  sym- 
pathy by  her  pale  and  sorrow-marked  counte- 
nance, "  oh  !  that  you  would  let  me  be  with  you  I 
that  you  would  receive  kindness  from  me  !" 

"  When  I  want  kindness  from  you,"  still  re- 
turned her  mother,  "  I  will  send  for  you :  what  I 
want  now  is  to  be  alone." 

"  May  I  send  Richard  to  you  ?"  persisted 
Elizabeth. 

Mrs.  Durant  fixed  her  eyes  sternly  on  her 
daughter,  and  replied,  "  I  want  neither  one  nor 
other  of  you.  Have  I  not  trouble  and  sorrow 
enough,  without  your  adding  to  it?" 

"  You  have,  dear  mother!"  returned  Elizabeth, 
tears  sta/ting  into  her  eyes;  "you  have!  indeed, 
you  have !  and  God  knows,  I  would  fain  lessen  it 
if  I  could." 

For  one  moment  Mrs.  Durant  seemed  touched 
by  her  daughter's  tenderness,  and  mild  tears  filled 
her  eyes;  but  the  next,  as  if  surprised  at  her  own 
weakness,  she  repelled  them,  and  replied  coldly, 
"  You  cannot,  child,  you  cannot  do  me  the  least 
good.  Leave  me,  and  send  Bridget,  and  Simon, 
and  the  rest  of  them." 

Elizabeth  obeyed;  and  Mrs.  Durant,  with 
wonderful  self-command,  collected  herself,  and 
stood  again  amid  the  paraphernalia  of  mourning. 
She  gave  her  orders  with  precision;  tatters  in  the 
cloth  were  mended,  moth-eaten  parts  cut  out,  and, 


80  FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 

with  the  help  of  Thomas  Doleman,  before  even- 
ing the  walls  had  assumed  their  hangings  of 
black. 

By  the  next  night,  black  plumes  nodded  over 
the  canopy  of  the  bed,  and  the  arms,  properly 
emblazoned  on  a  hanging  of  black  velvet,  adorned 
the  bed's  head ;  the  bed  itself  was  converted  into 
a  kind  of  throne,  on  which  the  coffin,  covered  with 
black,  was  placed,  and  all  around  black  drapery 
hung  in  sweeping  folds  to  the  floor;  four  tall 
black  wax  tapers  stood  at  the  four  corners  of  the 
bed,  ready  to  be  lighted,  and  which  were  designed 
to  cast  a  sombre  illumination  over  the  bed,  leaving 
the  rest  of  the  apartment  in  stately  and  solemn 
gloom. 

All  this  occupied  two  whole  days  in  the  doing, 
but  it  wonderfully  diverted  Mrs.  Durant's  mind 
from  its  more  immediate  troubles;  and,  as  during 
that  time  she  never  saw  her  son,  she  kept  her 
heart  with  all  its  griefs  locked  up  like  a  miser's 
treasure. 

We  left  Richard  last  on  his  way  to  the  Durant 
Arms,  to  have  an  interview  with  his  uncle. 

The  interview  was,  of  course,  not  satisfactory. 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  endeavoured  to  throw  all 
the  blame,  and  mismanagement,  and  misunder- 
standing, on  his  mother,  or  to  obtain  for  himself 
either  concession  or  good-will.  Sir  Thomas  con- 
descended to  no  explanations,  further  than  what 
Sharpie  had  given.  He  conceded  only  one  iota 
in  his  nephew's  favour,  granting  him  one  calendar 
month,  until  new-year's  day,  to  bury  his  father, 
and  to  make  sale  of  his  effects.     In  vain  poor 


FAMILY    AFFAIRS.  81 

Richard  pleaded,  threatened,  stormed,  and  even 
tried  to  coax  and  flatter;  Sir  Thomas  was  im- 
moveable; afid  his  nephew  was  unpleasantly  sen- 
sible that  he  stood  before  him  as  an  inferior  in 
intellect.  '•  Oh,"  thought  the  unfortunate  young 
man,  "  if  I  could  but  have  him  up  to  fight  it  out 
with  me,  I  could  do;  but,  hang  it,  I  am  no  hand 
at  talking !"  and,  vexed  and  mortified,  he  was 
almost  ready  to  cry. 

"  On  new-year's  day,"  replied  Sir  Thomas, 
with  the  most  provoking  coolness,  "  I,  or  Mr. 
Sharpie,  or  both  of  us,  will  be  down  to  take  pos- 
session. I  am  not  to  be  played  with,  young  man; 
and  now,  as  my  carriage  is  at  the  door,  I  must 
beg  you  to  detain  me  no  longer." 

Richard  walked  out  of  the  inn,  and  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  stood  to  watch  the  departure 
of  his  uncle.  His  old  friends  of  the  village  kept 
aloof  from  him,  although  they  had  often  acknow- 
ledged him  to  be  "  a  good  sort  of  fellow,  who  never 
grudged  a  crown  to  make  a  man  drunk  !"  But  it 
had  now  got  abroad  that  things  were  going  wrong 
at  the  hall,  and  that  crowns  would  not  be  so 
plentiful  as  they  had  been;  therefore  they  were 
less  solicitous  for  his  notice. 

Sir  Thomas  was  seen  at  the  upper  window  of 
the  inn,  fur-coated  up  to  the  chin,  and  drawing 
on  his  gloves  preparatory  to  descending  to  his 
carriage,  which  was  now  drawn  up  close  to  the 
door-stone.  Richard  beckoned  one  of  his  old 
cronies  up  to  him. 

"  Here,  Timson,"  said  he,  taking  half  a  guinea 


82  ,  FAMILY    AFFAIRS. 

out  of  his  pocket,  "give  the  old  wolf  a  parting 
salute." 

Having  said  this,  he  walked  deliberately  up  the 
church-yard  side,  still  taking  care  not  to  lose  sight 
of  the  Durant  Arras.  Timson  perfectly  under~ 
stood  what  he  was  expected  to  do;  and,  just  as  Sir 
Thomas  issued  from  the  inn-door,  and  was  about 
to  seat  himself  in  his  carriage,  a  volley  of  stones 
thundered  about,  shivered  the  glass  of  one  of  the 
carriage-windows,  and  even  threatened  the  demo- 
lition of  Sir  Thomas's  person.  He  seated  himself, 
however,  and  Sharpie,  having  jumped  in  after  him, 
the  door  was  hastily  closed,  and  the  postillions, 
putting  spurs  to  their  horses,  posted  away,  the  out- 
riders coming  after  with  equal  speed.  Shouts 
and  hootings,  the  eloquence  of  the  mob,  pursued 
them  down  the  street;  proving,  at  all  events,  that 
Richard  had  stout  partisans  who,  for  money,  if 
not  for  love,  would  take  his  part. 

He  did  not  return  home  till  late  that  night. 
He  was  so  well  pleased  with  the  zeal  of  Timson 
and  his  other  friends,  that  he  determined  to  give 
them  a  day's  drinking.  All  the  village  was,  of 
course,  agog  about  the  strange  things  that  had 
happened,  and  were  about  to  happen,  at  the  Hall; 
and  as  it  was  soon  noised  about  that  "  Mr. 
Richard"  was  at  the  Durant  Arms,  everybody 
flocked  there. 

Richard  was  that  day  very  popular;  and  before 
night,  everybody  had  sworn  "  to  side  with  him 
through  thick  and  thin,"  and  to  give  Sir  Thomas, 
let  him  come  when  he  would,  such  a  reception  as 


THE    FUNERAL. 


83 


should  make  him  remember  Stantcn-Combe  to  the 
latest  day  of  his  life. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


THE    FUNERAL. 


After  Elizabeth  had  been  repulsed  in  her  at- 
tempt to  comfort  her  mother,  she  anxiously  wished 
for  her  brother's  return,  in  the  belief  that  what- 
ever disunion  there  had  been  between  them,  it 
would  soon  be  made  up,  and  that  he,  in  fact,  was 
the  only  person  who  could  allay  her  natural  anxiety 
and  distress  of  mind.  But  Richard  came  not 
through  that  day,  and  it  was  with  great  satisfac- 
tion that  she  saw,  before  evening,  her  mother  had 
regained  her  usual  equanimity,  and  appeared  so 
completely  absorbed  by  the  funeral  preparations, 
as  to  have  forgotten,  at  least  in  appearance,  not 
only  her  own  individual  griefs,  but  the  alarming 
crisis  which  was  approaching  in  their  worldly 
affairs. 

All  this  preparation  for  a  costly  funeral,  for  one 
who,  in  his  lifetime,  was  so  little  regarded  by  the 
principal  members  of  the  family,  seemed  to  her 
the  height  of  folly,  nay,  almost  like  a  mockery  of 
the  old  man's  memory.  She  ventured  even  to 
question  her  mother  on  the  subject.  "  Was  it," 
she  asked,  "  what  her  father  himself  would  have 
wished?  And  furthermore,  as  it  was  known  to  the 
whole  country  round  what  a  quiet  retired  life  he 
had  led  for  years,  nobody  would  expect  to  see 


84  THE    FUNERAL. 

him  buried  like  the  old  Durants,  who  had  held 
important  offices  in  the  county,  and  had  been 
well  known  to  everybody.  She  feared,"  she  said, 
"  they  might  look  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  their 
neighbours;  and  though  that  was  9  reason  of 
small  weight,  when  duty  or  moral  principle  were 
opposed  to  it,  she,  for  her  part,  felt  keenly  now 
and  she  thought  Richard  would  feel  it  too." 

"  Child !"  replied  the  mother,  with  a  counte- 
nance almost  of  disdain,  "  you  talk  like  youi 
father  !  Is  this  a  time,  I  pray  you,  to  stoop  down 
that  we  may  be  trodden  on  !  that  we  should  let 
our  enemies  know  the  extent  of  their  power  to 
humble  us !  No,  no ;  we  will  at  least  preserve 
our  own  self-respect!" 

"  But,"  replied  Elizabeth,  "  we  cannot  be 
showing  self-respect  by  making  ourselves  ridicu- 
lous. God  knows  that  I  loved  and  honoured  my 
father,  but  I  would  beg  for  him  only  a  quiet 
burial.  We  never  consulted  him,  in  his  latter 
years,  how  a  single  pound  should  be  spent;  and 
had  we  done  so,  he  could  have  given  us  no  counsel ; 
it  is  unseemly  then,  I  think,  to  make  for  such  a 
one  a  pompous  funeral;  especially,"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  "  when  money  is  like  to  be  short 
enough  with  us." 

"  I  will  have  a  funeral,"  returned  her  mother, 
without  noticing  her  arguments,  "  which  shall  not 
disgrace  a  Durant !  What !  shall  it  be  said  that 
we  have  not  the  means  to  bury  our  dead  ?" 

"  Never  mind  what  is  said,"  replied  Elizabetn, 
amazed  at  herself  for  arguing,  and  at  her  mothei 
for  permitting  it;  "  let  him  be  buried  decently 


THE    FUNERAL.  85 

and  quietly — that  at  least  we  owe  him ;  but  we 
can  show  him  no  reverence  by  impoverishing  the 
living,  merely  for  senseless  cost  over  his  dead 
body." 

"  You  know  nothing  of  what  befits  the  credit 
of  a  family,"  returned  her  mother,  who  had  only 
allowed  her  to  argue,  because  she  had  no  regard 
for  her  opinion ;  "  how  should  you  ?" 

"  I  do  not  think  Richard  would  advise  this  ex- 
pensive funeral,  nor  Lady  Thicknisse,  either,"  said 
Elizabeth. 

"  Do  not  worry  me  to  death  I"  returned  Mrs. 
Durant,  impatiently;  "surely,  I  know  what  is 
right !  I  will  have,  I  say,  a  noble  funeral,  if  I 
melt  down  the  family  plate,  bit  by  bit !  I  will 
bury  my  dead  as  a  Durant  ought  to  be  buried, 
and  I  will  gather  about  us  our  neighbours  and 
connexions,  and  know  at  least  who  are  our 
friends?" 

Elizabeth  opposed  her  mother  no  further,  but 
she  sincerely  hoped  that  something  would  occur 
to  prevent  a  thing  so  absurd  as  this  pompous 
funeral. 

Richard,  as  we  have  said,  did  not  see  his  mother 
that  day;  and  the  next,  attended  by  his  groom,  he 
set  off  for  Darlington,  to  consult  a  lawyer  and  to 
order  his  own  mourning. 

In  the  meantime,  although  Mrs.  Durant  was 
engaged  so  much  by  her  funeral  preparations,  and 
although  she  had  been  so  seriously  displeased  and 
grieved  by  her  son's  apparently  friendly  alliance 
with  Sharpie,  still  she  was  full  of  thought  and 
anxiety  about  him.    She  feared  he  had  withdrawn 

I 


86  THE    FUNERAL. 

his  confidence  from  her:  the  very  idea  of  neglect 
and  unkindness  from  him  filled  her  soul  with 
anguish.  Then  she  excited  herself  by  fears 
respecting  him — vague  apprehensions  of  she  knew 
not  what;  and  many  times  in  the  course  of  the 
day  she  exclaimed — "  Oh,  that  he  would  but 
come!  that  I  did  but  know  where  he  was!  that 
he  was  only  safe  from  danger !"  And  many  a 
time  she  went  to  the  window,  to  see  if  he  were 
visible  in  his  homeward  way. 

It  was  not  till  the  third  day  that  she  heard  he  was 
gone  to  Darlington.  "  It  was  unkind,"  she  said  to 
herself;  "heat  least  might  have  told  me  of  his 
journey,  had  it  only  been  to  spare  my  anxiety !" 

Alas !  poor  woman  !  her  son  had  never  been 
taught  to  spare  her  anxiety;  how  then  should  he 
have  thought  of  it  at  this  moment? 

But  spite  of  the  many  causes  of  uneasiness,  the 
preparations  for  the  funeral  went  on.  Letters  of 
invitation  to  all  the  kith  and  kin,  even  to  the 
remotest  connexion,  were  written  and  sent;  the 
same  likewise  to  all  their  neighbours,  till  the 
burial  of  Mr.  Durant  came  as  much  to  be  talked 
of,  far  and  near,  as  an  election  itself.  The  under- 
taker was  very  well  pleased  with  the  job,  for  it 
was  many  a  long  year  since  the  Durants  had  made 
a  great  funeral,  and  the  traditions  of  his  family 
told  of  famous  doings  in  this  way;  and  good 
Thomas  Doleman,  be  it  known,  was  not  remark- 
able for  worldly  wisdom,  and  overlooked  the  very 
important  fact,  that  the  Durants  had  sorely  gone 
down  in  the  world  since  then. 

The  old  state  apartments,   by  Mrs.  Durant's 


THE    FUNERAL.  87 

orders,  were  again  opened  and  aired  for  use;  fires 
were  burning  in  every  room,  and  three  or  four 
village  women  were  employed  to  polish  up  the 
ancient  furniture.  To  see  all  that  was  going  on, 
it  would  have  been  imagined  that  the  family  had 
a  life-long  residence  before  them,  instead  of  being 
on  the  sorrowful  eve  of  departure  for  ever. 

"  But  it  all  will  be  right !"  she  would  argue 
with  herself;  "  for  if  it  comes  to  a  sale,  things 
wiH  only  look  all  the  better!  But  it  never  will 
come  to  that !  they  shall  drag  mo  out  by  force, 
before  I  leave !" 

For  the  twentieth  time  Mrs.  Durant  reckoned 
up  who  of  her  relations  and  her  husband's — with 
all  of  whom,  however,  for  these  twenty  years, 
there  had  been  no  intercourse — she  might  expect 
to  honour  the  funeral.  Somehow  or  other  she 
persuaded  herself  that  everybody  would  come ; 
and  she  gratified  herself  by  the  vision  of  a  nume- 
rously attended  funeral,  a  stately  procession  of 
hearse  and  mourning  coaches,  friends'  and  neigh- 
bours' carriages,  and  half  the  country  on  horse- 
back, winding  down  the  hilly  park-road  to  the 
village  church. 

"  It  will  show  them"  she  said,  "  that  we  are 
respected,  and  have  those  who  will  do  us  honour!" 
— the  them  always  meaning  Sir  Thomas  Durant 
and  Anthony  Sharpie. 

On  the  fourth  day  after  the  death  of  Mr. 
Durant,  Richard,  who  had  heard  at  Darlington 
of  the  grand  funeral  and  the  proposed  lying-in- 
state, although  certainly  he  was  not  unaware  of  his 
mother's  intention  when  he  left  home,  wrote  to 


88  THE    FUNERAL. 

her,  decidedly  forbidding  it.  "  It  was  the  most 
absurd  thing  she  had  ever  done,"  he  said,  "  and 
he  now  saw  that  it  was  high  time  he  took  the 
management  of  his  affairs  into  his  own  hands, 
for  that  she  was,  like  all  other  women,  unacquainted 
with  business,  and  quite  unfit  to  be  trusted  with 
money." 

As  a  postscript  to  this  dutiful  letter  he  also 
added,  4i  that  he  should  not  hold  himself  re- 
sponsible for  any  debts  which  might  be  contracted 
on  this  occasion." 

This  was  indeed  a  cruel  blow;  but  another 
letter  also  arrived  nearly  at  the  same  moment. 

We  have  not  yet  mentioned  what,  however,  was 
the  fact,  that  both  Mrs.  Durant  and  her  daughter 
had  written  to  Starkey,  the  one  to  Lady  Thick- 
nisse,  the  other  to  her  friend,  Mrs.  Betty,  inform- 
ing them  of  the  late  melancholy  and  perplexing 
events.  At  the  very  moment,  therefore,  in  which 
Mrs.  Durant  was  reading  her  son's  letter,  she  was 
informed  that  a  messenger  had  arrived  express 
from  Starkey  with  letters.  Mrs.  Betty's  was  full 
of  kindness  and  sympathy ;  a  comfortable  letter, 
that  did  Elizabeth  good,  although  it  occasioned  her 
many  tears.  Lady  Thicknisse's,  however,  was  the 
epistle  of  importance.  Mrs.  Durant,  hurt  and 
offended  by  the  one  she  had  received  from  Richard, 
tore  open  the  one  from  her  friend,  hoping  to  find 
consolation  and  assurance  in  it.  The  letter  was 
as  follows : — 

"  Starkey,  December  4. 

"  Dear  Madam — Your  letter  has  excited  the 
most  lively  concern.     I  hope  it  is  needless  to  say 


THE    FUNERAL.  89 

how  deeply  I  sympathize  with  you.  The  loss  of 
my  esteemed  friend,  your  husband,  I  trust,  is  his 
gain.     God's  will  be  done  ! 

"  What,  however,  is  at  this  present  moment  of 
importance  for  you  to  know,  I  hasten  to  commu- 
nicate. Fortunately,  my  lawyer,  Mr.  Twisicdon, 
was  with  me  when  yours  arrived,  which  I  laid 
before  him;  and  now  enclose  his  opinion  on  the 
state  of  your  affairs.  I  fear  from  this,  that  you 
have  no  chance  against  Sir  Thomas  Durant:  you 
will  see  that  he  knows  that  gentleman  well:  what- 
ever he  has  done,  he  says,  the  law  will  bear  him 
out  in.  I  fear  the  law  sanctions  much  that  is 
unjust;  and,  moreover,  which  I  greatly  regret,  he 
declares  fhat  you  cannot  resist  the  ejectment,  hav- 
ing had  Jegal  notice  to  quit. 

"  I  need  not  say  the  regret  I  feel  that  your  and 
my  godson's  affairs  have  fallen  into  such  con- 
fusion. I  fear,  however,  that  my  godson  has  not 
always  been  as  discreet  in  his  expenditure  as  he 
ought:  I  have  beard  of  him  both  at  York  and 
Doncaster,  which  I  regret. 

"  What  has  urged  me  more  especially  to  send 
off  to  you  express  is  regarding  the  funeral.  Con- 
sidering the  private  manner  in  which  your  good 
husband  liv<  d.  I  think  a  public  funeral  unadvised. 
Nothing,  I  believe,  but  the  present  agitation  of 
your  mind  could  have  induced  you  to  sanction  such 
a  proceeding-  If  it  is  my  godson's  doing,  I  can- 
not think  high./  of  his  judgment.  All  needless 
cost,  in  the  present  state  of  his  affairs,  should 
be  avoided:  very  few.  and  those  only  your  im- 
mediate neighbours,  need  be  invited,  and  for  these 

I  2 


90  THE    FUNERAL. 

tbe  expense  would  be  moderate.  But  by  no 
means  let  the  body  lie  in  state.  Your  doors  are 
thus  thrown  open,  and  some  of  that  lawyer's 
creatures  will  be  getting  in,  whom  you  will  find 
trouble  in  getting  rid  of  again. 

"  The  urgency  of  the  occasion  must  excuse  my 
plain  speaking. 

"  I  am,  dear  Madam, 

"  Your  friend  and  weil-wisher, 
"  Susannah  Thicknisse." 

The  postscript  to  this  letter  ran  thus :  "  Should 
there  be  a  sale  of  the  effects  at  Stanton-Combe,  I 
should  like  that  the  pair  of  ebony  cabinets,  which 
stand  in  the  great  drawing-room,  be  purchased  for 
me.  Of  course,  they  will  be  appraised ;  1  do  not 
wish  to  give  more  than  their  value;  but  as  I  have 
an  old  friendship  for  the  family,  I  may  as  well 
possess  them  as  a  stranger.'' 

Mrs.  Durantwas  staggered  in  her  own  opinion. 
Formerly,  not  heaven  nor  earth  could  have  in- 
duced her  to  change  a  favourite  opinion ;  but  she 
was  not  the  woman  she  had  been,  and  the  very 
wavering  of  her  judgment  produced  a  depress- 
ing sensation.  She  felt  like  one  at  sea,  without 
rudder  or  compass,  and  for  the  moment,  forgetting 
Richard's  letter,  she  wished  he  were  there  to 
counsel  with  her. 

Great  was  the  amazement  of  the  house  when 
Mrs.  Durant  announced  that  the  lying-in-state 
was  not  to  be  made  public;  and  that  no  one  was 
to  be  admitted  to  the  house  without  her  knowledge. 
The  preparation  for  the  funeral  feast,  however, 


THE    FUNERAL.  91 

went  on  as  before;  "for,"  said  Mrs.  Ourant, 
"  they  who  are  bid  to  the  funeral  must,  of  course, 
be  received.  But  why  cannot  Dick  come  and 
look  after  these  things  himself,  seeing  that  now  I 
cannot  do  ought  to  please  him  ?" 

"  What  is  come  over  Madam?"  said  Bridget  to 
Simon,  who  was  major-domo. 

"  A  sad  waste  of  nails  has  there  been,"  returned 
Simon,  "  to  put  up  those  black  hangings ;  seven- 
and-twenty  score  of  ten-penny  nails,  and  all  of 
my  own  driving;  and,  after  all,  nobody  coming  to 
see  it !" 

"  And  the  candles  that  have  been  burning  ever 
since,"  said  Bridget. 

"  And  the  wax-lights  that  were  had  for  the 
show,  and  them  never  to  be  used,"  said  Simon  ; 
"  and  I  warrant,  Thomas  Doleman  won't  take  'em 
back  again !" 

"  And  all  this  scrubbing  and  rubbing,  this 
mending  and  airing,"  enumerated  Bridget ;  "  Lord- 
a-me  !  and  all  to  no  purpose  !" 

"  Madam  has  never  been  herself  since  that 
night,"  remarked  Simon,  shaking  his  head  ;  :t's  a 
sore  thing  losing  of  house  and  home  !" 

"  And  the  quarrel  with  Mr.  Richard,"  re- 
turned Bridget ;  "  that  cuts  her  up  worse  than 
aught  else !" 

The  eighth  day  after  Mr.  Durant's  death  was 
appointed  for  his  funeral,  and  Richard  returned 
on  the  evening  of  the  sixth.  Mrs.  Durant  had 
been  consumed  by  the  most  painful  anxiety  dur- 
ing his  absence,  and  the  moment  she  heard  his 
Voice  her  heart  leapt  with  inexpressible  affection ; 


92  THE    FUNERAL. 

yet,  as  he  entered  the  room  she  assumed  an  air  ol 
displeasure,  greeting  him  with  unusual  coldness  : 
for  it  was  but  right,  she  thought,  to  make  him 
sensible  of  the  respect  he  owed  her;  and  his 
letter,  certainly,  had  shown  no  regard  to  her  feel- 
ings or  her  peace  of  mind. 

But  Richard  came  in  no  mood  to  humble  him- 
self. The  lawyer  whom  he  consulted  at  Darling- 
ton, and  who  was  to  follow  him  the  next  day,  had 
assured  him  that  his  mother  was  the  mainspring 
of  all  their  troubles.  So,  in  fact,  she  was,  for  she 
had  sacrificed  everything  to  Richard's  supposed 
interest,  and  his  reckless  self-will ;  but  that  was 
net  the  way  they  reasoned.  And  he  had  assured 
him  also,  as  Mr.  Twisledon  had  assured  his  mo- 
ther, that  opposition  to  Sir  Thomas  Durant  would 
produce  no  other  effect  than  involving  them  in 
law,  and  swallowing  up  every  sixpence  they  pos- 
sessed. He  returned  home,  therefore,  in  the  full 
spirit  of  his  letter,  resolved  to  be  henceforth  master 
of  his  own  affairs,  and  full  of  contempt  for  women 
as  managers  of  business. 

The  first  glance  of  his  sullen  countenance  con- 
vinced his  mother,  that  whatever  might  be  the 
state  of  her  wounded  feelings,  the  present  was  not 
the  moment  to  upbraid  him.  A  complete  reaction 
took  place  in  her  mind;  and,  not  having  been  of 
late  in  his  confidence,  and  knowing  neither  the 
state  of  his  feelings,  nor  the  cause  of  his  present 
ill  humour,  she  feared  to  say  one  word  that  might 
either  wound  or  annoy  him.  A  flood  of  affection 
passed  over  her  soul,  effacing  every  late  vexation; 
and,  with  unwise  zealousness  to  win  his  confidencei 


THE    FUNERAL  93 

bhe  now  overwhelmed  him  with  little  well-meant 
acts  of  kindness,  every  one  of  which  operated  ae 
a  goad  to  his  excited  temper. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  madam  !"  sai'd  he  at  length,  as 
she  urged  him  to  the  enjoyment  of  some  ac- 
customed luxury,  which  he  had  refused  with  pet- 
tishness,  "  will  you  take  from  me  the  indulgence 
of  my  own  freewill?" 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  with  a  countenance 
full  of  contrite  affection,  she  made  another  effort 
to  oblige  her  wayward  son.  "  I'll  tell  you  what,'J 
said  he,  starting  up  and  pushing  her  aside,  "  if  you 
will  not  let  me  take  my  own  course,  in  small 
things  as  well  as  great,  I  will  leave  this  house,  and 
you  shall  never  see  my  face  again  !" 

Bitter  tears  were  in  Mrs.  Durant's  eyes,  but 
she  torcibiy  repressed  them ;  bitter  words,  too, 
sprung  to  her  lips,  but  she  would  not  utter  them, 
determined  that  nothing  on  her  part  should  widen 
the  breach  between  them. 

"  Have  patience  with  her,  dearest  brother !" 
said  Elizabeth,  starting  up  the  moment  he  had 
spoken ;  "  say  not  anything,  I  beseech  you,  that 
you  may  afterwards  repent  of!" 

Poor  Mrs.  Durant  sank  into  her  chair  and  wept, 
for  her  daughter's  words  overcame  her. 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  repent  of  what  I  do,"  said 
Richard.  "  It  is  women  that  do  silly  things ; 
and  why  does  she  pester  me?  I'm  sure  I  would 
not  have  come  back  at  all,  if  I'd  known  there 
would  have  been  such  a  fuss !" 

"  Speak  kindly,  Richard,"  whispered  she,  see« 


94  THE    FUNERAL. 

ing  her  mother's  unwonted  emotion,  "  for  she  ha 
many  troubles  to  bear  !" 

"  So  have  I !"  exclaimed  he  aloud,  determined 
that  his  mother  should  hear  all,  "  and  troubles, 
too,  of  her  bringing  on  !" 

"  Richard !  Richard !"  exclaimed  his  mother, 
starting  up,  and  dashing  aside  the  tears  that  blinded 
her  eyes,  "  this  I  have  not  deserved  !  God  knows, 
if  I  could  have  died  to  save  you  I  would !  and  I 
wish  I  was  now  lying  beside  the  corspe  in  yonder 
room,  rather  than  have  heard  the  words  you  have 
spoken !" 

"  It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  lain 
there,"  remarked  Richard,  coldly. 

"  Just  Heaven  !"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  mo- 
ther, dropping  into  her  chair,  and  wringing  her 
hands,   "  what  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  ?" 

Elizabeth  stood  beside  her,  without  speaking, 
and  Richard  sat  down  to  finish  the  supper  which 
this  dialogue  had  interrupted. 

An  hour  afterwards  Richard  seemed  still  to 
prolong  his  meal,  and  his  mother  still  was  seated 
in  her  chair ;  not  a  word  had  been  spoken.  Eliza- 
beth felt  as  if  she  were  an  intruder,  as  if  she  per- 
haps prevented  a  reconciliation,  or  prevented  her 
brother's  offering  atonement  for  his  cruel  words, 
and  she  retired  to  her  own  room. 

No  sooner  was  she  gone  than  Mrs.  Durant 
again  made  an  attempt  to  establish  peace  between 
them. 

But  we  will  spare  ourselves  and  our  readers 
a  relation  of  what   followed.     High  words  and 


THE    FUNERAL.  95 

hysterica!  sobs  were  heard  by  old  Bridget  outside 
the  door,  and  she  also  averred  that  Richard  had 
struck  his  mother. 

Elizabeth,  whose  heart  was  depressed  by  the 
scene  she  had  just  witnessed,  and  by  her  own 
forlorn  and  melancholy  prospects,  although  she 
retired  to  her  own  room,  did  not  retire  to  bed. 
Long  past  midnight  she  heard  her  brother  ascend 
hurriedly  to  his  own  chamber,  the  door  of  which 
he  closed  with  violence.  She  listened  to  discover 
whether  her  mother  also  retired  for  the  night;  but 
as  all  remained  still,  and  she  well  knew  that  only 
some  deep  cause  would  keep  her  up  when  Richard 
had  left  her,  she  stole  softly  down  stairs  to  learn  if 
she  could  render  duty  or  service. 

She  entered  the  room.  Her  mother  sat  with 
clenched  hands,  and  countenance  of  concentrated 
misery,  but  there  was  neither  tear  in  her  eye,  nor 
trace  of  tear  on  her  cheek. 

"  Mother !  dearest  mother !"  said  Elizabeth. 

Mrs.  Durant  did  not  hear  the  words. 

"Dearest  mother!  speak  to  me!"  exclaimed 
she,  falling  on  her  knees  before  her,  and  terrified 
by  her  immobility.  "  Speak!"  and  she  caught 
hold  of  her  hands. 

"Serpent!  viper  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Durant, 
catching  away  her  hands,  and  starting  up. 

"  Mother!"  repeated  Elizabeth,  rising  from  her 
knees. 

"  Go,  child !"  said  she,  fixing  her  eyes  on  her 
daughter  with  great  severity,  "  go,  I  say  !" 

"  I  will  not  go,"  replied   Elizabeth,  with  ten- 


96  THE    FUNERAL. 

derness,  and  yet  with  firmness;  "  not  till  I  know 
that  it  is  not  in  a  daughter's  power  to  render 
service  to  a  mother.  It  is  the  privilege  of  this 
most  holy  and  tender  of  relationships  to  perform 
such  a  duty,  and  I  demand  this  privilege  from 
you  !  Before  Heaven,  I  demand  it !"  said  Eliza- 
beth, again  sinking  upon  her  knees  before  her 
mother,  and  kissing  her  hand.  "  Grant  it  me, 
beloved  mother  !"  she  continued ;  "confide  in  me; 
let  me  know  your  sorrows,  that  I  may  know  how 
to  comfort  them." 

"  You  cannot,  you  cannot,  child  !"  returned  her 
mother.  "  It  is  not  in  mortal  power  to  comfort 
me  1  I  have  suffered  that  which  is  without 
remedy  !" 

"  Say  not  so ;  think  not  so  1"  exclaimed  her 
daughter.  "  You  know  how  my  father  loved  me  ! 
Let  me  be  to  you  what  I  was  to  him !  I  should 
never  be  weary  of  performing  my  duty." 

"  Rise,  child,  rise!"  said  Mrs.  Durant;  "urge 
nothing  now;  I  am  not  in  a  state  to  bear  it. 
Show  your  duty  at  least  by  leaving  me  !  God 
knows,  I  am  a  mother  to  be  pitied  !" 

"  May  He  bless  you  and  comfort  you !"  said 
the  affectionate  girl,  weeping  tears  of  sincerest 
sympathy ;  "  and,  please  Heaven  !  the  time  will 
corns  in  which  you  shall  receive  my  affectionate 
service !" 

She  retired  again  to  her  chamber,  and,  in  its 
silence  and  solitude,  poured  out  her  full  heart  to 
God. 

Mrs.   Durant  did  not  leave    her  own  room 


THE    FUNERAL.  9? 

through  the  whole  of  the  next  day,  and  Richard 
was  busied  with  the  Darlington  lawyer,  who  had 
arrived  that  morning. 

The  morrow  was  that  on  which  the  interment 
was  to  take  place.  What  a  relief  poor  Mrs. 
Durant  found  it,  in  the  present  state  of  her  feel- 
ings, that  some  part  of  the  funeral  ceremony  had 
been  dispensed  with  ;  and  now  even  she  w  ished  it 
could  have  been  altogether  private.  She  was  not 
in  spirits  to  encounter  the  bustle  of  many  guests, 
and  those  family  connexions  with  whom  intimacy 
had  now  ceased.  She  felt  as  if  she  had,  indeed, 
done  a  great  folly;  she  feared  that  her  son  might 
betray  want  of  respect,  or  want  of  confidence  to- 
wards her  before  the  funeral  company. 

Elizabeth  divined  what  her  mother's  feelings 
would  be,  and,  greatly  as  she  disliked  the  publicity 
of  the  funeral,  determined  to  spare  her  as  much  as 
possible.  Old  Bridget,  and  Simon,  and  Thomas 
Doleman,  wondered  at  her  activity  and  fore- 
thought. 

"  So  as  she  fretted  about  him!"  said  Bridget; 
"  who'd  have  looked  for  her  to  take  thought  about 
everything !" 

"  She's  better  notions  of  things  even  than 
Madam,"  said  Thomas  Doleman,  "  and  a  very 
pretty  way  of  speaking  to  a  body  !" 

"  Well,"  said  Simon,  "  I  never  saw  Madam  give  . 
in  so  afore  I  but  we  shall  have  her  in  her  tantrums 
when  all's  over !" 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Durant  roused  herself 
with  a  desperate  effort,  to  do  all  that  might  be 
needful  on  that  trying  day.     She  had  not  seen  her 

K 


98 


THE    FUNERAL. 


son  since  the  night  of  his  return;  what,  therefore, 
were  his  sentiments  towards  her,  she  knew  not. 
She  wished  she  could  but  catch  a  glimpse  of  his 
countenance,  for  on  the  first  token  of  submission 
or  contrition,  on  his  part,  she  was  prepared  to 
receive  him  again  into  her  soul.  It  Mas  not,  she 
felt,  a  time  for  disunion,  and  she  listened,  there- 
fore, for  the  sound  of  his  footsteps,  as  he  left  his 
chamber,  eager  that,  spite  of  what  was  past,  she 
might  make  the  first  advance  towards  reconcilia- 
tion. But  she  listened  in  vain;  and  then,  as  the 
time  went  on,  hoping  that  he  was  already  down 
stairs,  she  went  herself  to  the  breakfast  parlour. 

The  undertaker  had  already  arrived;  and  as 
she  had  a  glimpse  of  the  mutes  standing  outside 
the  door,  and  perceived  what  an  unusual  stir  and 
ceremony  there  was  throughout  the  house,  her 
very  soal  loathed  it.  When  Elizabeth  met  her 
mother  that  morning,  she  was  shocked  at  the 
alteration  in  her  appearance.  It  was  not  alone 
the  straight  hair,  and  the  widow's  cap,  but  a 
change  much  more  affecting  even  than  that.  The 
bright  complexion  was  gone,  and  she  looked  pale, 
as  if  from  the  effects  of  severe  illness;  and  there 
was  an  uneasy  tremour  about  the  mouth,  that  told  of 
suffering  of  the  heart.  It  seemed  as  if  a  few  hours 
had  done  the  work  of  years.  "  Surely,"  thought 
she,  as  she  glanced  at  her  mother,  "  surely,  when 
he  sees  that  face,  he  will  be  excited  to  kindness." 

Mrs.  Durant  sat,  all  ear  and  attention,  secretly 
hoping,  spite  of  all  the  means  she  had  taken  to 
secure  a  large  attendance,  that  no  one  would 
come.     It  would  be  far  better,  she  thought,  to 


THE    FUNERAL.  99 

bear  a  slight  from  people,  that  in  truth  she  cared 
nothing  about,  than  be  humiliated  by  her  son 
before  them.  As  to  appealing  to  the  congregated 
guests,  even  if  half  the  country  had  assembled, 
against  the  aggressions  of  their  kinsman,  that  was 
an  idea  that  was  quite  gone.  It  all  seemed  like  a 
chimera,  and  she  wondered  how  so  short  a  time 
had  so  completely  changed  not  only  her  feelings 
but  her  power  of  action. 

At  nine  o'clock  a  dozen  of  neighbours,  farmers 
and  small  landed  proprietors,  had  arrived  on  their 
stout  horses,  to  attend  the  body  to  the  church. 
They  had  come  partly  out  of  curiosity,  and  were 
now  drinking  ale  and  eating  cold  beef  in  the 
steward's  room,  while  the  undertaker's  men  were 
busied  with  their  scarfs  and  hatbands. 

In  the  meantime,  innumerable  were  the  notes 
of  condolence  and  apology  which  had  been  sent 
in  to  excuse  the  non-attendance  of  all  the  various 
branches  and  connexions  of  the  family,  near  and 
remote.  There  seemed  no  prospect,  indeed,  but 
of  a  small  funeral.  Poor  Mrs.  Durant !  she 
wished  again  that  nobody  had  been  asked ;  felt 
very  angry  with  them  all,  and  thought,  with  a 
sigh,  of  all  the  funeral  baked  meats  which  nobody 
would  come  to  eat. 

The  slow  tolling  of  the  church-bell  had  been 
sounding  all  the  morning,  and  groups  of  villagers 
stood  at  the  corner  of  the  road,  by  the  church- 
yard wall,  and  about  the  Durant  Arms,  to  witness 
the  show. 

It  was  now  two  o'clock,  the  time  fixe!  for  the 
moving  off  of  the  funeral  procession.     Elizabeth 


100  THE    FUNERAL. 

and  her  mother,  both  apparelled  in  their  deep 
mourning,  sat  together  in  their  morning  room, 
but  Richard,  the  chief  mourner,  had  been  seen 
by  no  one.  The  most  intense  anxiety  filled  Mrs. 
Durant's  heart.  She  never  felt  so  unfitted  to 
combat  difficulties  before.  Richard  filled  her  with 
the  deepest  perplexity,  yet  she  would  not  for  the 
world,  that  any  one  should  imagine  it  to  be  so; 
she  even  tried  to  think  nothing  of  his  absence. 

"  He  is  busy,"  she  said,  "  with  his  lawyer;  he 
thinks  nothing  of  time.  Simon,  tell  your  master 
what  is  the  time;  let  him  know  that  our  good 
neighbours  have  arrived." 

The  anxious  face  of  Thomas  Doleman  next 
presented  itself,  to  say  that  all  was  ready. 

Mrs.  Durant  herself  knew  it;  for  she  herself 
had  seen  the  coffin  carried  into  the  heaise,  and 
the  mourning  coach  drawn  up  to  the  door,  and 
the  dozen  neighbours,  hat-banded  and  scarfed, 
mounted  upon  their  long-tailed  horses.  But  she 
now  saw  far  more  than  this :  there  were  no  less  than 
eight  carriages  ready  to  take  rank  in  the  proces- 
sion; there  was  the  Dickon's  and  the  Prescott's 
Sir  Thomas  Wodom's,  old  General  Merton's,  and 
the  Wilbore's ;  Squire  Waddifield's,  and  Sir 
Charles  Blackiston's;  and,  besides  these,  a  caval- 
cade of  gentlemen,  all  men  of  reverence,  hat- 
banded  and  scarfed  !  She  had  no  idea  of  all  this ! 
It  was  really  gratifying — it  was  kind  !  and  poor 
Mrs.  Durant  felt  as  if  good  days  were  returning, 
as  she  eyed  this  honourable  array. 

The  truth  was,  the  death  of  poor  old  Mr. 
Durant,  at  the  very  moment  of  the  deepest  family 


THE    FUNERAL.  101 

troubles,  had  filled  all  hearts  with  sympathy.  He 
had  always  been  respected,  and  people  would  not, 
at  such  a  time,  withhold  this  small  token  of  regard 
to  his  memory,  particularly  when  it  must  be  con- 
soling to  the  ruined  family.  On  the  contrary, 
those  very  persons,  connexions  of  the  family, 
upon  whom  Mrs.  Durant  had  calculated  most, 
were  unwilling  to  show  countenance  to  the  dis- 
honoured and  fallen  branch,  when,  perhaps,  they 
themselves  might  be  helped  to  advance  by  the 
new  branch,  which  was  so  greatly  in  the  as- 
cendant. 

When  Mrs.  Durant  saw  that  this  funeral,  after 
all,  was  likely  to  turn  out  an  important  affair,  it 
roused  her  up  at  once  to  her  usual  energy. 

"  What  does  the  foolish  man  mean  ?"  said  she  ; 
"  are  we  to  be  disgraced  in  the  face  of  half  the 
country  ?"  and,  rushing  out,  she  hasted  to  her  son's 
room,  and  presented  herself  before  him." 

"  Dick  !"  said  she,  her  eye  flashing  as  she  spoke, 
"  am  I  to  attend  as  chief  mourner,  or  you  ? 

The  bewildered  undertaker  followed,  with 
Richard's  crape-bound  hat  in  his  hand,  which 
he  presented. 

"  Pray-ye,  Mr.  Richard,"  said  he,  "  do  not 
keep  'em  waiting  ;  there's  every  look  of  rain  com- 
ing on  ;  and  it  makes  such  work  with  tilings  !" 

Richard  muttered  something  about  the  money 
that  was  spent,  yet  he  put  on  his  hat,  and  took  up 
his  new  black  gloves;  and  then,  taking  the  arm  of 
his  friend,  the  lawyer,  who  met  him  at  the  door, 
without  vouchsafing  the  slightest  regard  to  his 
mother,  they  walked  deliberately  down  the  great 

k2 


102  THE    BREAKING    UP 

stair-case,  mounted  the  mourning-coach,  and  the 
funeral  procession  was  put  in  motion. 

Mrs.  Durant  had  the  pleasure  of  witnessing 
such  a  funeral  procession  as  would  not  have  dis- 
graced the  head  of  the  family  in  its  better  days. 
It  made,  certainly,  a  very  imposing  appearance; 
and  she  sat  down  to  pen  a  paragraph  for  the 
county  papers,  whereby  she  hoped  to  make  it 
evident  to  Sir  Thomas,  in  London,  that  they  were 
not  without  honour  among  even  their  more  in-* 
fluential  neighbours. 

The  farmers,  and  the  undertaker's  people,  alone 
returned  to  dinner,  and  a  jolly  carouse  was  made, 
for  there  was  no  lack  of  eatables  or  drinkables 
As  the  important  business  of  the  day  was  now 
over,  Mrs.  Durant,  finding  that  Richard  was 
engrossed  with  his  law  friend,  retired  to  her  own 
room,  and  was  seen  of  none  of  the  household  again 
that  day.  She  had  a  new,  although  a  petty  source 
of  annoyance — her  new  costume.  The  widow's 
cap  and  the  bombazine  very  little  suited  one  who 
had  worn  a  riding-habit  and  a  black  silk  caul  for 
thirty  years.  She  was  almost  disposed  to  forswear 
the  new  costume  for  the  old. 


CHAPTER   X. 


THE  BREAKING    UP    OF    A    FAMILY. 

Elizabeth  felt  that  nothing  could  be  worse  for 
them,  a  broken  household  as  they  were,  with  a 
gloomy  and  uncertain  future  before  them,  than 


OF    A    FAMILY.  103 

the  present  want  of  unanimity.  She  despaired  of 
gaining,  all  at  once,  the  confidence  of  her  mother; 
she  resolved,  therefore,  to  try  what  influence  she 
had  with  Richard,  and  she  anxiously  wished  for 
some  favourable  opportunity. 

The  next  morning,  however,  Richard  himself 
opened  the  communication  by  telling  her  that  she 
and  her  mother  must  look  out  for  some  place  for 
themselves;  for  that,  on  the  twentieth,  the  sale 
would  commence,  and  he  should  want  the  house 
free  of  all  encumbrance. 

Elizabeth  was  shocked  at  the  unfeeling  tone 
in  which  this  communication  was  made,  and 
she  inquired  if  he  had  thought  of  any  plan  for 
them. 

His  answer  was  simply,  "  No." 

"  Remember,  Richard,"  she  replied,  "  that  we 
are  all  fellow-sufferers;  we  must  assist  each  other 
with  counsel." 

Richard  replied,  that  he  had  enough  to  do  to 
think  for  himself. 

"  Let  us  retain,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  this  com- 
fortable reflection,  that  through  all  our  troubles 
we  have  acted  with  kindness  and  confidence  one 
to  another." 

"  My  patience !"  exclaimed  Richard,  "  and 
what  good  will  that  do  !" 

"  All,"  replied  his  sister;  "  for  without  affec- 
tion one  for  another,  how  tenfold  forlorn  are  our 
prospects !  I  am  sure  if  we  would  be  happy,  we 
must  cultivate  a  spirit  of  love  and  good  under* 
etandiDg  amongst  ourselves." 


104  THE    BREAKING    UP 

Richard  said  he  wanted  nothing  but  a  good 
understanding  with  them. 

"  Then,"  replied  his  sister,  "  kt  your  mother  at 
least  know  what  you  are  intending  to  do.  We 
are  in  the  most  trying  circumstances  I" 

"  The  deuce  we  are  !"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  now,  brother,"  said  she,  "  I  myselt 
will  act  according  to  what  I  recommend.  I  ask, 
earnestly  and  affectionately,  of  you  my  own  bro- 
ther, what  step  do  you  counsel  me  to  take  ?  I 
have  had  many  little  schemes  for  myself,  but  none 
exactly  please  me." 

"  Oh!  how  should  I  know?"  answered  he;  for 
he  had  never  been  taught  to  think  for  any  one  but 
himself. 

"  Richard!"  said  his  sister,  the  tears  starting  to 
her  eyes,  "  I  am  the  most  forlorn  of  us  all;  you 
and  my  mother  were  always  dear  friends  to  each 
other;  she  loved  you  as  she  never  loved  me.  I 
have  lost  my  friend.  Oh,  brother!  that  you 
would  but  fill  his  place;  that  you  would  but  let  us 
love  one  another,  and  act  in  unison !  We  are 
young,"  she  continued,  "  and  I  think  we  might 
defy  our  troubles,  if  we  loved  each  other;  if  we 
were  a  united  family." 

Richard's  silence  showed  that  he  was  not  pre- 
pared with  an  answer,  and  she  asked — 
"  Have  you  seen  my  mother  to-day  ?" 
"No!"    he    answered    abruptly;    "nor   do   I 
want !" 

"  Will  you  give  me  then  some  message  to  carry 
to  her  ?  some  kind  word  or  two  ?"  demanded  his 


OF    A    FAMILY.  105 

sister.  "  She  looks  ill,  Richard,  and  I  am  sure 
she  is  unhappy  !  Just  say  three  or  four  kind 
words; — that  you  are  busy  or  you  would  go  and 
talk  with  her,  or  that  you  send  your  love  to  her." 
"  Stuff!"  returned  Richard.  "  But  now,  do 
you  understand  me,"  resumed  he;  "did  you  under- 
stand what  I  said  about  having  the  house  clear  of 
you?     I  shall  have  the  sale   on  the  twentieth." 

Elizabeth  sighed  deeply,  and  then  replied,  "Yes, 
indeed,  I  understand  you,  and  that  again  brings 
me  to  my  argument;  think  for  us,  dearest  brother; 
where  shall  we  go?  We  have  no  home;  that 
you  know  as  well  as  I  do  !" 

"Oh!  I'm  sure  I  don't  know !"  returned  he; 
but  the  tone  in  which  these  words  were  spoken 
seemed  kind,  and  she  pressed  his  hand  to  her  lips, 
"  I  have  thought  sometimes,"  said  she,  "  that  I 
would  go  to  the  old  school-master's  till  all  this 
bustle  is  over;  for  then  I  should  be  at  hand  if  I 
should  be  wanted,  or  if  I  could  be  of  service  either 
to  you  or  mother.  What  a  privilege  it  is,"  said 
the  poor  girl,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  to  be  of 
value  and  of  use  to  somebody  !" 

"  Heaven  knows!"  she  again  resumed,  "what 
a  bitter  thing  it  will  be  to  me  to  leave  this  dear 
old  house  !  Oh,  Richard,  it  is  a  hard  case  !  it  is 
a  cruel,  cruel  case  !  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  your 
anger !  I  and  mother,  liowever  much  we  loved 
it,  might  naturally  look  to  leave  it  sometime,  but 
you  never  !  I  love  the  house,  and  the  old,  deso- 
late gardens ;  for,  in  my  quiet  way,  I  have  had  my 
pleasures,  all  the  deeper,  perhaps,  for  being  quiet; 
and,  thank  Heaven  !  come  what  will,  I  shall  think 


106  THE    BREAKING    UP 

of  this  sweet  old  home,  and  my  poor,  dear  father, 
as  Adam  and  Eve  must  have  thought  of  the  gar- 
den of  Eden,  and  the  angels  that  visited  them 
there  I" 

"  It  is  a  burning  shame !"  said  Richard,  "  thai 
I  am  to  be  driven  away  thus  from  my  own  place!" 

"  As  a  matter  of  law,"  said  she,  "  I  know  no 
thing  about  it;  but  I  suppose  it  is  quite  gone  from 
us. 

"  The  old  rascal !"  exclaimed  Richard,  grind- 
ing his  teeth ;  "  but — "  and  he  shook  his  head 
without  finishing  his  sentence. 

"  I  think,"  resumed  Elizabeth,  "  it  will  be  the 
death  of  mother !" 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Richard,  "  old  women  don't  die 
so  easily  !" 

"  Do  not  speak  of  her  in  this  way,"  said  his 
sister;  "  she  has  been  a  most  devoted  mother  to 
you.  You  know  not  how  much  keener  is  an 
unkind  word  even  than  a  sword's  point !  and  the 
present  is  not  the  time  when  we  should  increase 
our  sorrows  by  unkindness  to  each  other !" 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Durant  entered  the  room. 
Elizabeth  wondered  whether  Richard  noticed  the 
change  in  her  countenance;  but  he  said  nothing; 
he  only  looked  doggedly  into  the  fire. 

Elizabeth  rose  from  her  brother's  side,  and, 
offering  a  morning  salutation,  placed  a  chair  for 
her  mother.  Mrs.  Durant  paid  no  regard  what- 
ever to  her  daughter,  but,  going  straight  up  to  her 
son,  presented  her  hand. 

The  young  man  neither  rose  nor  seemed  dis- 
posed to  obey. 


OF    A    FAMILY.  107 

"  I  insist  upon  it  I"  said  Mrs.  Durant.  "  I  ask 
it  as  no  favour;  I  insist  upon  it!  Foolish  boy, 
I  say,  give  me  your  hand  !  I  command  you  to 
let  us  be  friends !  Far  better  would  it  have  been 
for  you  to  have  gone  down  on  your  bended  knees 
to  me.  than  have  thus  compelled  me  to  seek  you  ! 
Troubles  have  brought  down  my  pride;  and  I, 
your  mother,  say  to  you,  we  will  be  friends !" 

Richard  placed  his  hand  ungraciously  in  his 
mother's,  and  she  then  sat  down  beside  him. 

From  this  time  there  was  an  appearance,  at 
least,  of  terms  being  kept  between  them.  On 
one  point,  however,  they  differed.  She  wished  to 
contest  the' case  with  Sir  Thomas  at  law,  believing 
that  Sharpie's  promise  to  them  was  binding;  or  at 
least  to  oblige  him  to  enforce  the  ejectment, 
which  she  thought  would  bring  odium  upon  him. 
Richard's  policy,  however,  was  different;  he  had 
his  law  friend's  opinion  that  it  was  vain  to  oppose 
Sir  Thomas;  Stanton-Combe  had  fairly  passed 
into  his  hands;  and  with  his  money  he  had  the 
means  of  bribing  public  opinion.  Everything  was 
in  his  favour,  and  Richard  seemed  willing  likewise 
to  go  with  the  tide.  He  said,  "  he  would  sell 
all,  stick  and  stone;  turn  everything  into  money; 
and,  as  to  revenge,  he  would  take  it  in  another 
way  !"  Neither  his  mother  nor  his  sister  inquired 
in  what  way;  and,  as  he  did  not  tell  them,  rdjilher 
will  we  confide  it  to  our  readers. 


108 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  GREAT  SALE  BY  AUCTION. 

Stanton-Combe  was  a  fine  old  place.  It  was 
full  of  stately  rooms,  finished  with  carved  wood- 
works, rich  ceilings,  and  ornamental  gilding,  and 
filled  with  furniture  of  the  most  costly  description; 
everything,  it  is  true,  was  dimmed  with  neglect 
and  disuse,  but  all  were  faithful  and  affecting 
chronicles  of  splendour  and  prosperity  that  had 
been. 

It  was  a  melancholy  thing  to  see  the  cold, 
hard-visaged  men  of  business  prying  through  their 
ancient  rooms,  and  bringing,  with  unhallowed 
hands,  as  it  seemed,  all  their  secrets  to  light;  ran- 
sacking cabinets,  and  diving  into  curiously  inlaid 
presses,  which  had  held,  in  trusty  ward,  the 
brocades,  and  the  lavendered  linen,  and  the  rich 
lace  of  many  a  now  forgotten  lady.  It  was  sor- 
rowful to  see  strangers,  whose  only  object  was 
"  to  turn  a  penny,"  examining  old  portraits  of 
handsome  men,  graceful  women,  and  round-faced 
merry  children,  the  once  happy  and  hopeful 
dwellers  of  the  mansion,  and  rating  them  by  their 
value  as  mere  canvass  and  paint;  to  see  curious 
and  costly  old  relics,  and  works  of  art,  which  had 
once  been  the  treasured  possessions  of  some  now 
forgotten  master  of  the  house,  about  to  be  dis- 
persed into  a  hundred  different  hands ! 

Elizabeth  hardly  ventured  to  think  of  what  was 
going  on,  or  of  what  lay  before  her,  even  in  the 


THE  GREAT  SALE  BY  AUCTION.    109 

near  future.  The  revealing  to  vulgar  and  money- 
making  people  the  secrets  of  the  house;  the  throw- 
ing open  of  those  disused  chambers,  which  had 
been  full  of  mystery  to  her  childhood,  and  of 
melancholy  interest  to  her  more  thoughtful  years, 
seemed  like  the  first  act  of  a  tragedy,  in  which 
preparation  was  made  for  all  the  dark  work  that 
was  to  follow — the  final  desolation  and  ruin  of  an 
old  family. 

Little  as  the  principal  members  of  the  family 
had  of  late  years  been  held  in  esteem  by  their 
wealthier  neighbours,  a  sentiment  of  pity  filled 
the  hearts  of  the  kind,  at  least,  and  Elizabeth  and 
her  mother  received  unexpected  and  cordial  in- 
vitations to  partake  the  hospitalities  and  shelter  ot 
their  roof,  until  the  present  season  of  trouble  was 
over,  and  their  plans  for  the  future  were  matured. 
There  is  a  general  sentiment  of  kindness  and  pity 
in  human  nature,  let  misanthropes  say  what  they 
will;  and  the  fountain  in  the  arid  desert  is  not 
more  blessed  and  welcome,  than  such  evidences 
of  good  feeling  to  the  unfortunate  and  the  un- 
happy. 

Mrs.  Durant,  however,  adhered  to  her  firsi 
avowal,  that  nothing  less  than  absolute  force 
should  remove  her  from  the  place ; — in  her  own 
words,  which  she  invariably  used,  "  she  would 
remain  there  while  the  roof  stood  !"  Elizabeth 
would  gladly  have  availed  herself  of  the  good-will 
of  her  neighbours,  had  not  the  necessity  for  her 
so  doing  been  prevented  by  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Betty  Thicknisse.     This  good  lady  had  obtained 

L 


110  THE    GREAT    SALI    BY    AUCTION. 

from  her  sister-in-law  the  favour  of  an  invitation 
for  her  god-daughter. 

No  sooner  was  the  letter  received  than  she  began 
to  make  preparations  for  her  journey,  or,  more 
properly,  for  her  final  departure.  It  was  indeed 
a  sorrowful  task,  but  necessity  in  this  case,  as  in 
many  others,  was  a  kind  task-master:  there  was 
no  time  allowed  for  her  to  think;  nor  was  it  till 
she  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage,  which  had  been 
thoughtfully  sent  for  her,  and  drove  down  the 
avenue,  and  past  the  broken  and  decaying  wall  of 
the  pleasance,  that  the  full  sense  of  its  being  a  last 
departure  came  upon  her. 

Who  does  not  know,  that  has  the  least  spark  of 
segment  in  his  soul,  the  melancholy  import  of 
those  words — "  for  the  last  time  !"  Elizabeth 
felt  them  at  that  moment  in  their  full  force ;  she 
was  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood,  the  gra-ve 
of  her  father,  for  poverty  and  an  uncertain  dwell- 
ing among  strangers. 

At  the  tu-a  of  the  road,  the  fine  old  hoi"*% 
with  its  many  details  of  ornamented  gables,  massy 
chimneys,  and  large  bay  windows,  stood  before 
her,  at  the  head  of  its  avenue.  It  had  never 
looked  so  stately ;  it  had  never  felt  so  dear  to  her 
heart  before;  and  the  last  view  of  the  home  of 
her  fathers  was  taken  through  blinding  tears. 

All  was  a  scene  of  bustle  and  preparation. 
Richard  and  his  man  of  business  seemed  to  enter, 
body  and  soul,  into  the  arrangements  for  the  com- 
ing sale.  Everywhere  they  might  be  met,  with 
important  faces  and  dusty  coats,  and  with  nvn  at 


THE    GREAT    SALE    BY    AUCTION.  Ill 

their  heels,  hastening  to  take  down  and  to  put  up, 
and  to  present  everything  with  its  best  face  to  the 
public;  or,  with  writing  materials  in  their  hands, 
assisting  others  in  preparing  catalogues. 

The  auctioneer,  a  sort  of  George  Robins  of 
those  days,  was  now  down;  catalogues  were 
printed,  and  the 

GREAT    SALE    BY    AUCTION, 

of  furniture,  pictures,  books,  musical  instruments, 
old  china,  wine,  family-plate,  and  linen  ;  works  of 
art,  cabinets,  inlaid  wardrobes,  splendid  pier- 
glasses,  &c.  <S:c.  &c. ;  besides  farming  stock  and 
cattle,  a  valuable  hunter  and  other  horses,  hounds, 
pointers,  and  other  dogs,  &c.  &c.  &c.;  all  the  pro- 
perty of  the  late  Edward  Durant,  Esquire,  of  Stan- 
ton-Combp,  in  the  county  of  Durham,  was  duly 
advertised  in  all  the  London  and  provincial 
journals. 

Then  came  down  London  picture-dealers,  al- 
though it  was  mid-winter,  and  travelling  was  not  so 
easy  a  thing  in  those  days ;  but  down  they  came 
by  coach,  and  mail,  and  post-chaise;  picture- 
dealers,  second-hand  book  buyers,  amateur  col- 
lectors of  all  kinds;  furniture-brokers,  and  all  the 
neighbourhood  beside,  poor  and  rich ;  for  the 
great  sale  at  Stanton-Combe  had  attractions  for 
everybody. 

In  one  respect  Richard  had  shown  attention  and 
care  for  his  mother;  he  had  been  just  to  her. 
Everything  that  was  hers,  or  which  she  could  lay 
the  remotest  claim  to,  even  down  to  a  china  tea- 
cup, he  ordered  to  be  removed  to  whatever  place 


112  THE    GREAT    SALE   BY    AUCTION. 

of  security  she  chose.  All  this,  and  it  was  neither 
inconsiderable  in  quantity  nor  value,  she  declared 
should  never  leave  the  house;  it  was  therefore 
stowed  into  those  rooms  which  she  appropriated 
to  herself  and  old  Bridget,  whose  services  she 
retained.  Among  the  valuables  which  she  secured 
was  the  carved  oaken  chest  containing  the  linen 
said  to  have  been  spun  by  the  brownie  of  the 
house,  and  with  which  superstition  connected  the 
fortunes  of  the  family. 

"  This,"  said  Mrs.  Durant,  "  is  my  son's  pro- 
perty but  I  will  be  its  warder;  and,  let  poverty 
come  upon  me  and  grind  me  to  the  very  dust, 
this  precious  heir-loom  I  will  not  part  with  even 
for  bread." 

It  was  stowed  in  a  safe  place,  and  Mrs.  Durant 
would  not  trust  Bridget  with  the  key. 

It  was  now  the  twentieth  of  the  month,  and  no- 
thing was  talked  of  far  and  near,  but  the  great 
sale,  and  what  was  reported  of  the  place  and  all 
that  it  held,  by  those  who  had  been  there.  Peo- 
ple who  were  ill  in  bed  thought  themselves  espe- 
cially unlucky,  not  because  they  were  ill,  so  much 
as  because  they  could  not  go  to  the  sale;  and  so 
great  was  the  concourse  of  people,  and  their 
horses  and  vehicles,  at  the  Durant  Arms,  and  the 
Seven  Stars,  that  the  landlords  declared  "  they 
should  lose  their  senses,"  and  the  ostlers  and 
waiters,  that  "  they  were  fairly  run  off  their  legs  !" 

It  had  been  suggested  by  Richard's  lawyer, 
that  Sir  Thomas  would  have  his  agents  at  the  sale, 
to  purchase  up  everything  connected  with,  or 
commemorative   of  the   family;   and,   therefore, 


YHE    GREAT    SALE    BY    AUCTION.  113 

these  bidders  must  be  strung  up  to  the  very  highest 
prices.  All  fell  out  as  they  had  foreseen;  Sir 
Thomas  was  resolved  that  nothing  of  interest  to 
the  family  should  go  into  other  hands,  and  Richard 
had  the  greatest  satisfaction  in  seeing  that  his 
uncle  would  not  have  one  cheap  bargain. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  he,  as  he  heard  the 
price  at  which  the  family  pictures  were  being 
k-iocked  down,  "  I  shall  get  more  good  out  of  my 
ancestors  thus,  than  I  ever  looked  for!" 

He  was  abundantly  satisfied  with  the  result  of 
every  day's  sale;  and  every  night  he  and  his  law 
friend  sat  down  to  a  good  supper,  and  drank  suc- 
cess to  the  next  day. 

So  ended  the  six  days  of  the  sale;  and  for  three 
days  more  the  place  was  thronged  with  people, 
packing  and  sending  off  their  purchases.  On 
the  evening  of  the  third  day,  the  last  waggon  drove 
off,  and  Richard's  man  of  business  shook  hands 
with  him  on  the  steps  of  the  principal  entrance, 
mounted  his  phaeton,  and  drove  off  also. 

Everybody  was  gone;  even  horses  and  dogs 
were  removed — all  excepting  the  large  yard-dog  in 
his  kennel ;  but  he  had  changed  masters — he  be- 
longed now  to  Sir  Thomas  Durant. 

It  wanted  now  but  two  days  to  the  end  of  the 
year,  and  a  rumour  was  in  the  village  that  Sharpie 
had  arrived  in  the  neighbourhood.  But  he  had 
not  yet  been  seen  at  the  Durant  Arms.  The 
thirtieth  day  of  December  was  Sunday;  a  cold, 
comfortless  winter  Sunday — a  Sunday,  too,  in  the 
Christinas  week;  but  so  occupied  had  the  mind  of 
both  Mrs.  Durant  and  her  son  been  of  late,  that, 

l2 


114    THE  GREAT  SALE  BY  AUCTION. 

excepting  for  Christmas-day  making  a  one  day's 
pause  in  the  sale,  the  time  would  have  been  for- 
gotten by  them.  Any  uninterested  spectator 
might  have  moralized  upon  the  changes  in  human 
fortune,  when  he  had  thought  of  the  Christmas 
that  had  been  kept  there,  with  spits  turning,  and 
spigots  running,  and  guests  in  hall  and  chamber; 
and  the  solitude,  and  silence,  and  ruin  that  had 
now  fallen  upon  everything; — the  chimneys  cold, 
the  larder  empty,  and  the  inhabitants  a  broken 
household,  about  to  leave  it  for  ever.  But  no- 
body moralized  on  these  things ;  and  poor  Mrs. 
Durant ! — how  changed  from  the  high-spirited 
dame  of  the  early  part  of  our  story ! — sat  in  her 
small  chamber,  reading  the  service  of  the  day  to 
Bridget,  who  was  now  the  sole  remaining  domestic. 
It  was  such  a  thing  as  Mrs.  Durant  had  never 
done  before ;  but  in  times  of  affliction,  or  of  deep 
excitement,  people  naturally  resort  to  a  form,  at 
least,  of  religion.  Scarcely  was  this  little  rite 
finished,  and  Bridget  retired  to  the  room  which 
served  for  kitchen,  when  Richard  entered  his 
mother's  chamber  and  sat  down  beside  her. 
There  was  something  very  peculiar  in  his  manner; 
he  seemed  full  of  thought,  and  softened  down  into 
unusual  quietness.  Nothing  could  be  more  affect- 
ing than  their  meeting:  his  mother  kissed  his 
forehead  and  cheek,  and  stroked  his  hair  as  she 
used  to  do  when  a  boy. 

"  Mother,"  he  at  length  said,  "  I  am  about  to 
leave  this  place;  I  am  about  to  leave  you— -yoi» 
must  now  grant  me  one  request." 

"  What  is  it,  dear?"  asked  she. 


THE    GREAT    SALE    BY    ALCTION.  115 

u  Leave  it  too  !"  he  answered. 

"  Never  !"  was  her  firm  reply. 

"  What  is  the  sense  of  your  stopping  here  by 
yourself?"  he  asked. 

"  If  that  is  your  request,"  said  his  mother, 
"  spare  your  asking;  I  would  not  grant  it  even 
on  your  death-bed  !  I  know  what  is  due  to  our- 
selves. They  shall  turn  me  from  the  place,  before 
I  go !" 

"  For  this  one  night,  then,"  said  Ricliard, 
"  sleep  at  the  Durant  Arms,  or  anywhere,  rather 
than  here.  This  is  a  great  ghastly  house;  it  looks 
desolate  and  dreary;  I  would  not  sleep  in  it  my- 
self!"       ' 

"  Foolish  boy  1"  returned  his  mother ;  "  I 
have  no  fears ;  fire-arms  I  have,  if  need  be.  I 
am  not  afraid,"  said  she,  laughing.  "  No,  no," 
added  she,  as  Richard  remained  silent,  "  I  will 
not  voluntarily  pass  the  threshold;  if  I  did,  they 
would  enter  and  forcibly  keep  me  out.  Surely," 
said  she,  eyeing  him  with  suspicion,  "  you  are  not 
leagued  with  them  against  me  ?" 

"  No,  upon  my  soul !"  exclaimed  Richard. 
"  My  care  is  only  about  your  own  comfort — your 
own  safety  !" 

"  It  is  dutiful,  very  dutiful  of  you  !"  she  said, 
"  and  I  ask  your  pardon  even  for  a  suspicion ;  but 
my  mind  is  made  up." 

"  It  is  getting  late,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  of 
some  seconds;  "  it  is  now  dark.  I  she])  ;it  the 
Durant  Arms,  and  shall  go  by  the  mail  to  Starkey. 
I  will  wait  for  you  there;  for  they  will  soon  (lis- 


116  THE    GREAT    SALE    BY    AUCTION. 

lodge  you,"  said  he  with  a  smile;  "very  soon  dis» 
lodge  you  !" 

"  And  your  money,"  asked  Mrs.  Durant,  "  is 
that  safe  ?" 

"  I  have  it  with  me,"  replied  he,  slapping  his 
hand  on  his  pocket ;  "  I  shall  put  it  in  the  Darling- 
ton Bank." 

"  Well,  Heaven  bless  you,  my  own  son  !"  said 
Mrs.  Durant,  embracing  him ;  "  Heaven  bless 
you ! — you  have  made  me  happier  than  I  have 
been  for  many  years;  for  oh,  Richard!  remember 
this — my  happiness  or  my  misery  is  in  your  hands!" 

Richard  kissed  her  and  muttered  something 
about  his  duty. 

"  Yes,  Dick,"  she  said,  as  she  held  his  hand  in 
both  of  hers,  "  I  know  you  will  do  your  duty. 
And  as  for  me,  I  care  not  what  I  suffer,  so  that 
you  prosper  and  are  happy !" 

Mrs.  Durant  wept;  and  Richard,  again  urging 
her  to  go,  but  being  refused,  he  turned  to  the 
door  to  leave  her:  she  went  down  stairs  with  him, 
to  secure  the  outer  door  after  his  departure. 

"  I  knew  he  had  a  good  heart !  I  knew  he 
loved  me !"  exclaimed  the  mother,  with  the  most 
inexpressible  satisfaction,  as  she  again  sat  alone 
in  her  chamber. 

Before  Mrs.  Durant  retired  for  the  night,  Bridget 
informed  her  that  Richard  was  not  gone;  he  had 
returned,  and  had  been  re-admitted;  that  he  de- 
sired her  to  go  to  bed,  and  said  he  should  remain 
in  the  house  all  night.  It  was  a  new  proof,  Mrs 
Durant  thought,  of  his  affectionate  care  for  her; 


AN    UNLOOKED    FOR    EVENT.  117 

«md,  at  that  moment,  she  did  not  seem  to  herself 
to  have  one  sorrow  on  earth. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

AN    UNLOOKED    FOR    EVENT. 

It  was  a  little  past  midnight  when  Bridget  raised 
her  head  from  her  pillow,  to  listen  to  certain 
sounds  that  had  startled  her  in  her  sleep. 

"Yes!"  said  she,  "there  it  is  again!"  and, 
terrified  almost  beyond  endurance,  she  went  from 
the  dressing-room,  where  she  slept,  to  the  adjoin- 
ing chamber. 

Mrs.  Durant,  who  had  had  many  uneasy,  sleep- 
less nights  of  late,  had  been  so  solaced  by  the 
parting  interview  with  her  son,  that  she  had  this 
night  slept  unusually  soundly. 

"  Lord,  madam  !"  said  the  woman,  shaking  her 
in  her  bed;  "  do,  pray  ye,  wake !" 

Mrs.  Durant  started  up,  wide  awake,  in  an 
instant.     "  What  is  it,  Bridget?"  asked  she. 

"  Lord,  madam  !  I  don't  know  !  but  have  you 
heard  nothing  ?" 

Mrs.  Durant  listened,  but  all  was  still  as  death. 

"  You'll  hear  it  in  an  instant,"  said  Bridget ; 
"  to  my  thinking,  they're  breaking  in  !" 

Mrs.  Durant  now  heard  the  sounds  Bridget 
had  spoken  of,  and  sprung  from  her  bed ;  she  in- 
creased the  light  of  the  night-lamp,  and,  without 
replying,  began  to  dress  herself  hastily. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  madam !  there  it  is  again  I"  ex« 


118  AN    UNLOOKED    FOR    EVJSrn. 

claimed  Bridget,  "  like  breaking  sticks  or  rotten 
wood  !   I  wish  I  had  my  clothes  here !" 

Mrs.  Durant  still  spoke  not  a  word,  and,  fixing 
one  loaded  pistol  in  her  belt,  with  the  other  in  her 
hand  she  took  up  the  lamp  and  undid  the  fasten- 
ings of  her  chamber  door,  Bridget  this  while 
clinging  to  her  in  the  infirmity  of  fear. 

"  Let  go  my  skirts,  woman  !"  said  her  mistress. 

Bridget  obeyed,  and  Mrs.  Durant  advanced 
along  the  narrow  passage  which  led  from  her 
chamber  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the  old  attend- 
ant following  in  her  night-gown. 

When  Mrs.  Durant  reached  the  open  stair-case, 
the  sounds  not  only  became  fearfully  audible,  but 
the  cause  intelligible  also.  The  place  was  on  fire  ! 
The  doors  of  the  principal  apartments  all  opened 
upon  the  large  lobby  at  the  stairs  head,  and  the 
first  door  that  she  opened  showed  at  once  the 
terrible  extent  of  the  fire,  although  as  yet  the 
flames  had  not  burst  into  the  apartment;  but 
smoke  was  issuing  through  crevices  of  the  wainscot, 
and  even  through  the  floor,  while  all  around  was  a 
low  roar,  as  of  a  furnace.  On  opening  a  second 
door,  which  led  to  a  private  stair-case,  the  flames  at 
once  burst  upwards  with  the  force  of  the  increased 
draft,  like  immense  tongues  sent  forth  from  fiery 
jaws,  licking  along  the  walls,  and  everywhere 
spreading  into  furious  burning.  Not  one  word 
did  the  strong-hearted  woman  utter;  but,  remem- 
bering that  her  son's  chamber  lay  above  the  very 
rooms  in  which  the  fire  was  making  such  fearful 
speed,  she  reproached  herself  mentally  for  having 
been  the  cause  of  his  remaining  there  that  night, 


AN  UNLOOKED  FOR  EVENT.      119 

and  rushed  up  the  stairs  vith  the  desperation  of  a 
tigress  about  to  be  robbed  of  her  young. 

Richard's  door  was  fastened  within,  as  she  sup- 
posed; she  knocked,  and  called  frantically  upon 
him  ••  her  voice  echoed  through  the  desolate 
chambers,  but  she  received  no  reply:  the  next 
moment  a  horrible  crash  Mas  heard,  and  the 
flames  seemed  to  burst  through  the  floor  into  that 
very  chamber:  it  was  all  at  once  in  a  blaze,  which 
shone  horribly  through  the  chinks  of  the  door. 
The  door,  which  had  hitherto  resisted  her  efforts, 
gave  way  before  her  desperation,  and  she  rushed 
into  the  burning  room:  her  feet  were  scorched 
through  the  soles  of  her  shoes,  and  the  atmo- 
sphere was  stiffling.  In  a  moment,  however,  she 
saw  that  the  room  was  empty:  she  had  forgotten 
that  the  furniture  had  been  removed  for  sale. 

Frantic  with  fear  of  his  danger,  she  rushed  again 
to  the  stair-case,  but  that  was  all  now  enveloped  in 
flame.  She  did  not,  however,  pause  to  think  of 
peril,  but  rushed  down,  although  the  flames  left 
the  smell  of  fire  on  her  woollen  garments. 

"  Oh,  Madam  !  Madam !"  exclaimed  Bridget, 
meeting  her  below,  "  here's  all  Stanton,  and  that 
fellow,  Sharpie,  swearing  it's  all  Mr.  Richard's 
doing!  and  there  are  constables  to  take  him!" 

The  alarum-bell  was  ringing  violently ;  stormy 
voices  of  angry  men  were  sounding  amid  the  roar- 
ing of  the  flames,  the  cracking  of  windows,  and 
the  crashing  of  falling  walls  and  floors.  The 
pitch-blackness  of  the  night  was  illuminated 
for  miles  round ;  but  nothing  of  this  reached  the 
senses  of  poor  Mrs.  Durant :    she  was  distracted 


120      AN  UNLOOKED  FOR  EVENT. 

to  obtain  intelligence  of  her  son.  It  would  have 
been  consolation  to  have  seen  him  in  the  hands  of 
the  constables  even,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be 
found.  Sharpie  promised  the  most  liberal  reward 
to  whoever  might  discover  him,  but  all  search  was 
fruitless.  At  length,  it  was  suggested  by  some 
one,  that  he  might  be  buried  under  the  ruins  of  the 
southern  extremity  of  the  mansion,  which,  with  its 
immense  stack  of  chimneys,  had  fallen  to  the 
ground. 

A  more  terrible  and  determined  fire  never  was 
witnessed.  It  was  in  vain  that  engines  spouted 
their  streams  upon  it.  The  seeds  of  fire  seemed 
to  have  been  sown  over  the  whole  place,  and  it 
was  soon  discovered  that  any  attempt  to  arrest  the 
conflagration  would  be  fruitless.  No  attempt  at 
rescuing  the  furniture  and  paintings  could  be 
made,  so  completely  was  the  interior  one  mass  of 
fire  when  the  people  arrived.  Nothing  was  saved 
but  the  furniture  in  Mrs.  Durant's  rooms:  this 
was  removed  with  great  speed  to  one  of  the  out- 
buildings, which  appeared  beyond  the  reach  of 
the  fire ;  Anthony  Sharpie  thinking  that  he  was 
thus  serving  his  patron. 

It  was  a  night  never  to  be  forgotten.  Half  the 
county  was  roused  by  the  distant  effect  of  the 
conflagration,  as  it  was  witnessed  in  the  fearfully 
illuminated  atmosphere.  Before  morning,  that 
stately  and  ancient  pile  was  merely  bare  and 
burning  walls,  which,  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
fell  to  the  ground,  heaping  up  below  a  pile  01 
smoking  ruins. 

An  express  reached  London  that  morning,  with 


AN  UNLOOKED  FOR  EVENT.       121 

the  tidings,  for  Sir  Thorns  Durant.  And  in 
three  days  more,  in  every  post-office,  coacli-office, 
and  ship-office,  were  bills  posted,  offering  "  5001. 
reward  to  any  one  who  would  apprehend  Richard 
Durant,  late  possessor  of  Stanton-Combe,  who  was 
supposed  to  have  been  instrumental  in  the  de- 
struction of  that  mansion  by  fire,  or  give  infor- 
mation so  that  he  might  be  apprehended:  or  200/. 
reward  to  any  one  who  would  ascertain  that  he 
had  perished  in  the  flames,  as  some  supposed." 

We  have  said,  this  while,  nothing  whatever  of 
Mrs.  Durant.  What  can  Ave  say  more  than  our 
readers  may  imagine  ?  Her  distress  was  of  the  most 
distracting  nature:  the  efforts  made  in  her  own 
person  to  assist  her  son's  deliverance,  supposing  he 
were  in  the  burning  rooms,  were  incredible.  She 
ascended  ladders  and  entered  furnace-like  cham- 
bers, where  the  stoutest-hearted  men  could  not 
bear  the  excessive  heat.  And  when  at  length  no 
hope  remained  for  her,  although  fearfully  scorched 
in  her  own  person,  she  appeared  unaware  of  hrr 
bodily  suffering,  the  anguish  of  her  mind  was  so 
much  greater.  She  was  conveyed  to  the  Durant 
Arms,  and  placed  in  bed. 

By  degrees  her  reason  gained  the  mastery  over 
her  despair,  and  then  she  began  to  gather  assur- 
ance of  her  son's  safety.  She  could  now  under- 
hand his  anxiety  to  remove  her  from  the  place 
that  night  She  would  have  died  by  torture, 
rather  than  have  avowed  the  part  she  bdieved 
him  to  have  had  in  the  fire;  but  she  began  to 
take  consolation.  Anthony  Sharpie  had  declared, 
on  oath,  that  he  himself  saw  Richard  Durant  pass 

M 


122      AN  UNLOOKED  FOR  EVKNT. 

from  the  southern  wing  of  the  building  to  that 
which  contained  his  mother's  apartments;  and 
though  others  swore  too,  that  they  had  seen  him, 
but  in  the  burning  rooms,  and  that  the  moment 
before  the  chimneys  had  fallen,  which  made 
escape  impossible,  she  yet  took  hope.  There 
was  no  necessity,  she  knew,  for  him  to  remain 
there,  unless  it  had  been  to  remove  her,  or  to 
assure  her  of  his  safety ;  she  d'd  not  doubt  but 
that,  when  he  had  seen  Sharpie  and  his  myrmidons 
at  hand,  he  had  fled  from  the  place,  and  was  now 
in  temporary  concealment.  This  opinion  was 
strengthened  by  the  deposition  of  the  landlord  of 
the  Durant  Arms,  who  stated  that  Richard  had 
left  his  house  by  mail,  for  the  north,  that  very 
night  at  twelve  o'clock,  before  the  fire  had  burst 
out.  The  driver  of  the  mail  declared,  on  oath, 
that  he  had  dropped  the  gentleman  who  had 
mounted  the  box  that  night  at  Stanton,  at  Kil- 
hope  Cross,  which  was  the  point  at  which  a 
person  going  to  Starkey  would  turn  off  from  the 
main-road;  but,  being  new  to  that  line  of  road  as 
driver  of  the  mail,  he  could  not  swear  to  the  per- 
son of  Richard  Durant.  All  this  corresponded 
with  what  Richard  had  told  his  mother  of  his 
intentions;  and  although  neither  Lady  Thicknisse, 
nor  his  sister,  nor  any  person  of  Starkey  whatever, 
had  seen  him,  or  had  intelligence  of  or  from  him, 
no  doubt  remained  in  his  mother's  mind  respect- 
ing his  security. 

One  circumstance,  however,  occurred  soon  after 
which  threw  all  again  into  doubt,  and  filled  the 
poor  mother's  heart  with  despair.     The  very  ring 


LIFE    IN    LONDON.  123 

which  Richard  had  worn  that  day,  as  not  only  his 
mother,  but  many  others,  could  testify,  was  found 
among  the  ruins  of  that  southern  wing  where  he 
was  stated  to  have  been  seen  by  so  "many. 
It  was  all  doubt  and  dreadful  uncertainty. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

LIFE    IN    LONDON. 

Six  months  afterwards,  Mrs.  Durant,  now  to  all 
appearance  an  aged,  heart-broken  woman,  with 
the  scars'of  the  fearful  fire  upon  her  countenance, 
and  her  hair,  which  had  been  black,  as  the  raven's 
wing,  now  thickly  sprinkled  with  white,  was  sit- 
ting in  the  library  at  Starkey.  Elizabeth  was 
beside  her,  her  eyes  fixed  affectionately  on  her 
mother's  countenance;  she  was  evidently  waiting 
for  an  answer,  which  the  other  was  slow  to  give. 

"  Well,"  at  length,  she  said,  "  it  may  be  kind 
of  Lady  Thicknisse  to  offer  me  the  fifty  pounds  a 
year;  we  have  been  old  friends,  and  it  is  nothing 
to  her,  with  her  fine  income;  and  I  am  brought 
very  low  by  many  things,  but — " 

"  Have  no  anxiety  about  me,  dear  mother," 
said  Elizabeth,  fearing  she  was  experiencing  the 
same  painful  anxiety  which  tortured  her  own 
breast.  "  I  shall  do  very  well:  Mrs.  Betty  as- 
sures me  of  the  kindness  of  Mrs.  Franklin,  and  I 
have  seen  her  letter  myself.  I  shall  do  very 
well  I" 

"  Oh  no !   child,  no  !    I  was  not  thinking  of 


124  LIFE    IN    LONDON. 

you  I"  returned  her  mother ;  "  though  I  must  say 
you  have  shown  no  lack  of  affection  to  me  since  I 
have  been  here.  I  dare  say  you  will  do  very  well, 
But  I  was  thinking,  that,  if  my  poor  lad  had  been 
alive,  he  would  never  have  let  me  be  dependent 
on  anybody  !"  And  with  this  thought  poor  Mrs. 
Duraut  burst  into  tears.  "  No,  no  !  he  would 
never  have  let  me  want;  so  kind  as  he  was  !  so 
affectionate  as  he  was  on  that  awful  night!" 

Elizabeth  doubted,  in  her  own  mind,  whether 
Richard  really  would  have  remained  as  dutiful 
and  as  affectionate  as  he  appeared  to  have  been 
on  that  particular  evening  to  which  his  mother  so 
perpetually  recurred,  but  she  would  not  for  the 
world  have  shaken  the  pleasing  belief. 

"  Oh  !"  said  Mrs.  Durant,  again  rousing  her- 
self from  that  stupor  of  grief  into  which  such 
allusions  to  her  son  invariably  threw  her,  "  I  can 
endure  it  no  longer!  This  uncertainty  will  be 
the  death  of  me  !" 

A  sudden  idea  the  next  moment  occurred  tc 
her,  and,  snatching  up  pen  and  paper,  she  wrote 
one  such  advertisement  as  the  London  journals 
contain  almost  daily — tell-tales  of  home-desola- 
tion, and  of  the  misery  of  trusting  and  breaking 
hearts.  In  the  course  of  the  next  week  all  Eng- 
land might  have  read  the  following : — 

"  R.  D.  is  earnestly  requested  to  communicate 
with  her  who  loves  him  more  than  life." 

For  a  whole  week  this  advertisement  appeared. 
The  first  thing  every  morning,  poor  Mrs.  Durant, 
with  eager  eyes,  and  hope  thrilling  her  heart  to 
violent  palpitation,  turned  to  the  columns  of  thf 


LIFE    IN    LONDON.  125 

paper.  The  appeal  was  still  there,  but  there  -was 
no  reply. 

After  an  interval  of  a  week  or  two,  the  heart- 
broken mother  made  another  attempt  to  obtain 
intelligence. 

"  If  R.  D.  is  still  alive,  let  him  ansiver !  As 
he  values  his  souls  peace,  let  him  anrwerf" 

Still  he^fcppeal  was  vain.  It  was  like  striking 
the  rock  with  a  feather.  Oh,  how  blind  and 
pitiless  seemed  that  to  which  she, was  calling — 
like  eternity  and  the  grave  !  It  was  as  if  she 
sent  the  cries  of  her  anguish  into  voiceless  depths  I 

For  three  months,  at  distant  intervals,  Mrs. 
DurantV  appeals  to  her  son,  if  still  living,  were 
read  in  the  columns  of  the  morning  papers,  varied 
from  time  to  time,  but  each  one  like  the  groans 
of  anguish  and  affection.  Many  and  many  a  one 
read  those  brief  effusions  with  tearful  eyes,  and 
looked,  each  returning  day,  with  tender  sympathy, 
to  recognise,  if  they  could,  some  response  or  ac- 
knowledgment.    But  there  was  none  ! 

At  length,  after  three  months  of  frightful 
anxiety,  a  post-letter  was  given  to  her.  The 
handwriting  was  unknown,  but  the  few  words  it 
contained  filled  her  with  inexpressible  joy. 

"  11.  D.  is  in  London,  and  is  well.  Do  not 
seek  to  know  more." 

He  was,  then,  living!  For  a  few  moments  it 
seemed  as  if  this  brief  assurance  restored  the  hap- 
piness of  life.  He  was  in  London,  and  well ! 
She  fell  upon  her  knees  and  returned  thanks  to 
Heaven;  she  called  herself  happy  and  fortunate, 
and,  for  the  moment,  forgot  even  the  misery  of  the 

M  2 


126  LIFE    IN    LONDON. 

hour  before.  Great,  however,  as  was  the  worth  of 
the  assurance  that  he  lived,  much  still  remained 
behind;  and,  scarcely  had  an  hour  elapsed,  after 
the  receipt  of  the  letter,  than  she  was  as  restless 
and  unsatisfied  as  formerly.  Of  his  prosperity  or 
happiness  she  knew  nothing.  He  might  be  in 
prison;  he  might  be  in  distress  many  ways,  and 
yet  be  well  in  health.  She  was  told  t§  inquire  no 
further.  How  little  did  he  know  of  the  insatiable 
yearning  of  a  mother's  heart,  who  could  address  to 
her  these  words ! 

London  was  now  the  goal  of  her  desires,  and 
she  declared  that  if  she  had  to  seek,  day  by  day, 
through  the  streets  and  alleys  of  that  mighty  city, 
nothing  but  death  should  stop  her. 

It  had  been  decided,  some  months  before,  as  we 
have  already  hinted,  that  Elizabeth  should  go  to 
London.  Good  Mrs.  Betty  Thicknisse  had  writ- 
ten on  the  subject  to  an  early  friend  of  hers,  even 
to  our  Mrs.  Franklin,  of  whose  connexion  with 
Sir  Thomas  Durant  she  was  unaware.  She  merely 
knew,  that  at  that  period  of  her  friend's  life  she 
had  taken  a  situation,  which  had  proved  an  un- 
happy one;  and,  as  the  two  ladies'  friendship  was 
kept  up  only  by  letters,  at  uncertain  intervals  of 
time,  Mrs.  Betty  had,  from  feelings  of  delicacy, 
forborne  to  question  on  a  subject  which  her  friend 
had  not  voluntarily  introduced. 

But  knowing  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  and 
firmly  relying  on  the  correctness  of  her  principles, 
Mrs.  Betty,  who  was  most  anxious  to  befriend 
Elizabeth,  and  to  assist  her  praiseworthy  efforts 
at  independence,  wrote  to  her,  and  besought  her 


LIFE    IN    LONDON  127 

advice  and  co-operation.  Mrs.  Franklin  im- 
mediately sympathized  with  the  young  lady  re- 
commended to  her,  not  only  as  the  god-daughter 
of  her  friend,  but  as  the  victim  of  her  old  per- 
secutor, Sir  Thomas  Durant,  and  promised  to 
■withhold  no  effort  in  her  behalf. 

The  journey  had  only  been  delayed  in  con- 
sequence of  Mrs.  Durant's  health,  and  state  of 
mind;  now,  however,  not  a  moment  was  to  be 
lost :  she  was  in  the  utmost  trepidation  to  be  away, 
and,  in  two  days,  all  was  in  readiness  for  their  de- 
parture. 

But  we  must  not  leave  Starkey  without  men= 
tioning  one  instance  of  good  Mrs.  Betty's  affection 
and  consideration.  When  the  two  ebony  cabinets, 
which  Lady  Thicknisse  had  bespoken,  arrived 
from  Stanton-Combe,  after  the  sale,  there  came 
also  an  oil  painting  with  them.  This  Mas  a  pre- 
sent for  Elizabeth,  from  her  considerate  god- 
mother, who,  out  of  her  small  income,  had  ordered 
this  purchase  to  be  made,  even  at  the  exorbitant 
rate  Sir  Thomas's  agents  were  ready  to  pay.  It 
was  a  fine  painting  of  Elizabeth's  father,  and  to 
her  was  an  invaluable  gift. 

We  may  as  well  also  mention  now,  what  portion 
of  Mrs.  Durant's  possessions,  which  had  been 
rescued  from  the  fire,  ever  came  to  her  hands ; — 
merely  that  which  Bridget  herself  had  saved;  but 
that  portion  happened  to  be  the  most  valuable — 
the  plate  and  jewels,  together  with  archest  of  linen, 
and  her  mistress's  clothes; — the  rest  fell  into  the 
clutches  of  Sharpie,  and  was  held  securely. 
That  oaken  chest,  however,  which  contained  the 


128  LIFE    IN    LONDON. 

"  brownie's  webs,"  and  about  which  poor  Mrs. 
Durant,  even  in  her  distress  for  her  son's  life,  did 
not  lose  thought,  perished  in  the  flames.  The 
after  belief  of  Richard's  death  made  this  appear 
of  less  importance  to  his  mother;  nay,  the  very 
fact  of  its  having  been  destroyed  seemed  an  as- 
surance, almost,  that  his  life  was  gone  too.  When 
she  discovered  that  this  belief  was  happily  un- 
founded, a  momentary  pang  crossed  her  heart, 
lest  it  indicated  that  fortune  had  deserted  her. 
"  But  no !  no  !"  reasoned  she,  giving  the  old  tra- 
dition that  second  meaning  which  so  many  an 
augury  is  capable  of;  "  the  fortune  of  the  house 
clearly  will  not  abide  by  the  intruder  I" 

Mrs.  Franklin  did  not  fall  short  of  the  character 
given  of  her  by  Mrs.  Betty.  Nothing  could  be 
kinder  and  more  considerate  than  she  was;  but 
she  herself  was,  to  a  certain  degree,  dependent 
upon  her  relative,  Mr.  Netley,  and  she  could  not 
do  more  than  offer  a  temporary  asylum  to  Eliza- 
beth and  her  mother.  But  she  could  give  sym- 
pathy and  advice,  and  that  was  much  to  Elizabeth  • 
for,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  her  mother  was  so 
completely  absorbed  by  one  thought — the  discover- 
ing and  allying  herself  again  to  her  son,  that  she 
seemed  to  become  incapable  of  another  idea. 
Mrs.  Franklin's  countenance  and  experience  were 
therefore  invaluable  to  her.  There  was  another 
source  of  comfort,  too — the  companionship  of  Alice 
Franklin,  the  only  young  female  companion  Eliza- 
beth had  ever  had — and  that  of  itself  was  a  de- 
lightful source  of  happiness.  Alice  had  profited 
by  every  circumstance,  favourable  and  unfavour- 


LIFE    IN    LONDON.  129 

able,  and  the  two  girls  formed  a  friendship  which 
was  productive  of  benefit  and  happy  consequences 
to  them  both.  Excepting  for  the  Franklins,  the 
situation  of  both  Mrs  Durant  and  her  daughter 
must  have  been  pitiable  and  forlorn  in  the  extreme. 
Although  poor  Mrs.  Durant  had  said,  when  at  a 
distance,  that  she  would  soon  discover  her  son  in 
London,  the  vastness  of  that  mighty  city,  with 
all  its  stir  and  life,  and  its  imposing  circumstances 
both  of  splendour  and  utter  wretchedness,  sunk 
even  her  heart.  In  vain  she  walked  the  busiest 
streets,  and  threaded  the  densest  crouds;  in  vain 
she  went  into  resorts  of  the  gay  and  happy,  glanc- 
ing her  restless  and  anxious  eyes  over  fair  and 
noble  forms:  he  for  whom  she  sought  was  not 
there.  Nor  was  he  to  be  met  with  in  the  dens 
and  alleys  where  she  penetrated,  fearless  of  injury 
or  insult.  It  was  a  hopeless  quest !  She  felt  as 
if  she  were  now  too  near — as  if  she  wanted  a  dis- 
tance and  space  to  look  around  in;  and  again  she 
had  recourse  to  her  correspondence  through  the 
columns  of  the  papers. 

"Richard,"  said  her  advertisement  "your  mo- 
ther is  near  you.  You  are  earnestly  requested  to 
communicate  with  her.  Write  to  A.  £.,  General 
Post-office." 

The  most  unsympathizing  clerks  at  the  General 
Post-office  learned  to  know  the  anxious  and  hag- 
gard countenance  of  the  poor  lady  in  black,  who, 
day  after  day,  and  even  twice  in  the  day,  pre- 
sented herself  to  make  inquiries. 

After  a  week  or  two,  the  advertisement  took 
another  form.     "  Has  R.  D.  no  regard  for  his 


130  LIFE    IN    LONDON. 

anxious  mother?  From  her  he  has  nothing  to 
fear.  She  cannot  much  longer  sustain  this 
suspense.  Communicate  through  General  Post- 
office,  addressed  Y.  Z." 

She  little  thought,  as  she  presented  herself 
again  and  again,  with  her  anxious  melancholy- 
countenance,  to  inquire  for  the  much-desired 
letter,  how  a  hundred  eyes  were  compassionately 
fixed  upon  her;  nor  how  she  came  to  be  known 
to  the  common  hackney-coachmen  on  the  stand 
near,  who  pitied  her  as  she  retired  each  day,  yet 
more  dejected. 

Elizabeth's  attention  and  kindness  to  her  mother 
were  unbounded,  but  her  mother  noticed  it  not. 
Her  anxiety  absorbed  every  faculty;  and,  had  it 
remained  much  longer  to  the  same  extent,  must 
have  ended  in  madness. 

Mrs.  Durant  had  accepted  the  offered  50/.  a 
year  from  Lady  Thicknisse,  "  until  she  was  pro- 
vided for  by  her  son;"  for  she  persisted  in  the 
happy  belief  that  Richard  would  joyfully  find  her 
a  home  and  means  of  support.  Besides  this,  she 
had  only  her  plate  and  jewels,  which  she  could 
not  think  of  turning  into  money — they  were  des- 
tined for  her  son,  for  him  for  whom  they  and  all 
her  other  wealth  had  been  preserved.  It  was 
necessary,  therefore,  that  Elizabeth  did  something, 
not  only  to  maintain  herself,  but  to  help  also  to 
maintain  her  mother.  What  could  she  do  ?  She 
thought  of  the  degraded  steward  in  the  gospel, 
who  could  not  dig,  and  was  ashamed  to  beg,  and 
she  thought  herself  like  him.  She  thought  first — 
as  all  educated  women  who  must  earn  their  own 


LIFE    IN    LONDON.  13i 

bread  seem  naturally  to  think  of  that  first — that 
she  would  employ  herself  in  education.  But  then, 
several  insuperable  objections  stood  in  the  way. 
Her  education  was  not  fashionable,  nor  could 
her  accomplishments  recommend  her  tither  to 
"  mammas,"  or  to  ladies  keeping  schools;  nor, 
again,  could  she  leave  her  mother  in  her  present 
unhappy  state:  needlework  she  thought  of  too, 
but  that  she  abandoned  for  another  occupation— 
for  one  that  had  beguiled  many  a  weary  hour 
even  at  home — the  making  artificial  flowers.  For 
ten  hours,  therefore,  each  day,  she  sat  in  their 
small  room,  closely  occupied,  the  monotony  of  her 
life  diversified  only  by  occasional  walks  with 
Alice  Franklin,  or  by  the  pleasant  hours  which 
that  kind-hearted  girl  spent  beside  her  work-table. 
Mrs.  Franklin,  who  had  known  hardships  herself, 
and  could  therefore  sympathize  in  those  of  others, 
took  the  sincerest  interest  in  the  elegant  labours 
of  their  young  friend.  So  did  Nehemiah  Ketley. 
he  himself  had  dealt  in  her  wares,  and  he  was  a 
connoisseur  in  such  things,  and  used  not  unfre- 
quently  to  look  in  upon  her. 

"  You  are  perfectly  absurd,  cousin  Franklin," 
said  he,  one  day,  when  he  returned  to  his  house 
at  Richmond ;  "  quite  absurd  about  that  young 
lady,  Miss  Durant!" 

'"'  How  so  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Franklin. 

"  Why,  giving  her  advice  about  the  sale  of 
her  flowers.  How  should  you  know  anything 
about  it?     But  people,  really,  are  so  absurd  !" 

Mrs.  Franklin  smiled,  and  wished  he  would 
give  his  advice. 


132  LIFE    IN    LONDON. 

-'  Why,  so  I  have,"  replied  he;  "I  looked  in 
this  morning :  beautiful  notion  she  has  about  her 
art;  for  I  can  assure  you  there  is  as  much  art  and 
science,  ay,  and  genius,  too,  required  in  the  mak- 
ing an  artificial  flower,  as  in  painting  a  picture ! 
— and  she  is  quite  a  gentlewoman  too  !  Give  my 
advice,  did  you  say?  what  good  would  merely 
giving  my  advice  do,  cousin  Franklin  ?  But  I  did 
what  was  the  right  thing  to  do;  I  took  a  coach  and 
a  box  of  her  flowers  to  my  friend  Horobin — capital 
notion  has  he  of  a  flower,  and  the  first  trade  in 
London !  I  had  nothing  to  do  but  open  my  box. 
It  was  settled  in  a  moment :  she  was  taken  into 
his  employ  in  an  instant,  with  good  pay,  and  safe 
into  the  bargain !  That's  what  I  call  doing  a 
thing  well,  cousin  Franklin  !" 

Mrs.  Franklin  held  out  her  hand  to  her  worthy 
old  relative,  and  shook  his  cordially,  telling  him 
that  she  thanked  him  heartily,  for  that  Miss 
Durant  was  deserving  of  the  zeal  of  all  her 
friends. 

It  was  in  this  way  that,  for  the  first  six  months 
of  their  London  sojourn,  Elizabeth  laboured  tor 
her  own  and  her  mother's  support. 

Poor  Mrs.  Durant's  attempts  to  discover  her 
son  had  hitherto  been  unsuccessful,  and  she  had 
again  recourse  to  the  newspapers,  in  the  following 
advertisement. 

"  Once  more  a  heart-broken  mother  appeals 
to  her  son.  Let  her  at  least  know  that  he  lives. 
Communicate  through  General  Post-office,  ad- 
dressed to  A.  J3." 

The  very  evening  on  which  this  advertisement 


LIFE    IN    LONDON.  138 

appeared,  the  woman  of  the  house  where  they 
lodged  informed  them  that  an  old  gentleman 
wished  to  speak  a  few  words  with  them.  Sup- 
posing it  to  be  Mr.  Xetley,  Elizabeth  went  out  to 
receive  him.  It  was  an  entire  stranger:  he  wished 
to  see  her  mother. 

"It  is  my  Richard's  voice!"  exclaimed  the 
mother,  dashing  forward,  and  sank  at  his  feet, 
overcome  by  emotion. 

"It  is  a  mistake!"  said  Elizabeth;  and  the 
stranger  repeated  her  words. 

The  door  was  closed,  and  Mrs.  Durant  was 
supported, to  a  chair.  She  opened  her  eyes,  and 
by  a  strong  effort  overcame  the  hysterical  con- 
vulsion that  oppressed  her.  "  I  will  not  be  kept 
from  him  I"  exclaimed  she,  rising  and  putting 
aside  her  daughter's  hand;  "  I  will  not  be  kept 
back,  for  I  know  it  is  he  !" 

The  stranger  again  protested  that  it  was  a  mis- 
take; that  he  merely  brought  a  message  from 
another  party. 

"  Leave  us  together!"  said  Mrs.  Durant  to  her 
daughter,  in  the  old  tone  of  command  which  she 
had  so  long  useii  at  Stanton-Combe,  but  which 
had  of  late  been  a  stranger  to  her  lips. 

Elizabeth,  who  had  been  accustomed  of  old  to 
her  mother's  jealous  affection  for  her  son,  instantly 
obeyed,  and  Mrs.  Durant  not  only  closed  but 
locked  the  d(  or  after  her. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  "  it  is  vain  to  attempt  an 
imposition  on  your  mother  !  Thank  Heaven,  I 
see  you  once  more  !"  And,  spite  of  his  disguise,  she 
kissed  his  hands,  and  cheek,  and  forehead.    "  Oh, 

W 


134  LIFE    IN    LONDON 

my  son  !  my  beloved  son  !"  she  exclaimed,  "why 
have  you  separated  yourself  from  me  ?  Speak, 
and  conceal  nothing.  I  will  not  ask  what  you 
have  done,  nor  where  you  have  been;  it  is  enough 
for  me  that  I  set  my  eyes  once  more  upon  you !" 

Richard  made  no  other  answer  to  these  pas- 
sionate appeals  than  by  coldly  remarking  that, 
if  other  people's  eyes  had  been  as  sharp  as  her's, 
he  should  not  have  been  where  he  then  was. 

Although  in  the  bitterness  of  her  grief  Mrs. 
Durant  thought,  many  a  time,  of  the  reproaches 
she  should  heap  upon  him  when  they  met,  she 
was  now  too  happy  for  reproaches;  she  could  only 
lavish  upon  him  the  most  affectionate  of  caresses, 
and  the  most  cordial  of  welcomes.  She  felt  hap- 
pier than  she  had  done,  even  in  her  best  days,  at 
Stanton-Combe. 

If  she,  however,  could  not  upbraid  him,  he  had 
not  equal  consideration  for  her. 

"  Those  advertisements  of  her's,"  he  said,  with 
a  bitter  oath,  "  had  been  all  but  the  cause  of  his 
detection."  It  was  in  vain  that  she  argued  of  her 
cruel  anxiety,  of  her  intense  affection;  he  only 
replied  by  charging  her  with  folly,  and  by  pro- 
testing that  he  would  never  reply  to  such  appeals 
again.  There  was  harshness,  and  the  most  cold 
selfishness  in  all  that  he  said;  but  his  mother 
could  not  feel  it  as  such ;  she  only  thought  that 
he  was  restored  to  her,  and  she  was  satisfied. 

When  he  rose  to  depart,  she  rose  also  and  be- 
gan to  put  on  her  bonnet  and  cloak. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?"  asked  he. 

"  With  you  ! — with  my  own  son  J"  said  she: 


LIFE    IN    LONDON.  135 

"  where  else  should  I  go  ?  I  will  not  lose  you 
again :  henceforward  we  will  not  be  parted  !" 

Richard  dashed  his  hat  upon  the  table,  and 
6\vore  that  she  was  a  fool. 

"  Heaven  knows,"  said  his  mother,  "  that  my 
fife  is  worthless  without  you  !" 

"  You  cannot — you  shall  not  go  with  me  !"  he 
replied  vehemently. 

"  Listen  !"  exclaimed  she ;  "  I  swear  to  you, 
that  I  will  ask  nothing  of  your  way  of  life.  I  will 
reveal  nothing  you  would  have  concealed !  I 
will  not  be  a  burden  upon  you !  and — for  a  mo- 
ther's eye  can  see  it,  though  it  were  hidden  from 
all  the  world  beside — Richard,  you  are  poor! 
nay,  start  not,  my  poor,  dear  boy  !  I  know  it,  I 
see  it !  There  is  want  in  your  eye !  Ay,  ay, 
perhaps  you  sought  your  mother  when  you  wanted 
help — when  you  Mere  come  to  your  last  groat ! 
Well,  never  mind !  by-gones  shall  be  by-gones ! 
It  is  enough  for  me  that  I  have  found  you ;  and 
while  I  have  a  crust  of  bread  I  will  divide  it  with 
you !" 

Richard  appeared  affected  by  his  mother's 
words.  He  sat  down  again  beside  her,  and  told 
her  a  long  history.  On  the  night  of  the  fire,  he 
said,  he  had  taken  his  place  by  the  north  mail, 
but  being  detained  longer  than  he  expected  at 
Stanton-Combe,  he  had  sent  his  groom  in  his 
place,  the  man  wearing  his  travelling  dress  as  a 
disguise;  when  the  fire  had  gained  a  head,  he 
had,  he  said,  hasted  to  his  mother's  rooms,  intend- 
ing to  remove  her,  but  she  was  not  there;  by  that 
time  Sharpie  and  his  people  were  all  on  the  spot; 


136  REAPING. 

and  the  word  being  given  that  he  must  be  seized 
as  the  incendiary,  he  had  kept  carefully  out  of 
their  view,  which  his  perfect  knowledge  of  the 
place  enabled  him  to  do.  He  made  his  escape, 
he  said,  in  the  early  morning,  to  the  house  of 
Timson,  with  whom  he  had  left  his  ring;  and  that, 
instead  of  going  to  Starkey,  as  he  had  intended, 
he  had  come  to  London.  In  London,  he  said,  he 
had  all  kinds  of  misfortunes,  sickness,  and  falling 
into  the  hands  of  thieves.  His  mother  could  feel 
nothing  but  compassion  and  love.  She  gave  him 
her  purse,  containing  five  guineas — all  the  money 
she  had  in  the  world,  and  prayed  Heaven  to  bless 
him !  He  then  went  on  to  tell  of  imprisonment 
in  France,  and  escape  there  for  his  life;  and 
excused  his  long  inattention  to  her,  on  the  plea  of 
being  abroad.  He  appeared  ingenuous  and  candid, 
and  his  mother  believed  and  pitied  him.  One 
only  request,  he  said,  he  would  make  from  her, 
that  she  would  not  seek  to  know  where  he  was 
concealed;  but  he  promised  most  solemnly  never 
again  to  absent  himself  long  from  her;  and,  in  the 
faith  of  his  promise,  she  suffered  him  to  depart. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


REAPING. 


But  our  readers  have  a  right  to  question  how 
much  of  Richard's  story  was  true.  They  shall 
know.  As  he  stated,  he  had  done  what  was  in 
his  power  to  remove  his  mother  from  the  burning 


REAPING.  137 

house  of  Stanton-Combe;  he  entered  her  apart- 
ments at  the  very  time  when  she  was  forcing  her 
way  through  fire  and  danger  to  his  chamber.  The 
arrival  of  Sharpie  and  the  constables  prevented 
his  making  further  search  after  her,  or  even  com- 
municating with  Bridget.  He  made  his  escape  to 
the  house  of  Timson,  before  day-break,  where  he 
remained  concealed  for  several  days,  no  way  dis- 
pleased to  find  the  idea  prevalent  of  his  having 
perished  in  the  fire.  He  submitted  the  ring  he 
was  in  the  daily  habit  of  wearing  to  the  action  of 
fire,  which  he  ordered  Timson  to  bury  among  the 
ruins,  and  afterwards  produce  as  found.  Timson 
did  so,  and  received,  in  process  of  time,  the  200/. 
reward  from  Sir  Thomas  Durant. 

After  Richard  had  been  concealed  with  Timson 
for  nearly  a  week,  he  assumed  the  disguise  of  a 
countryman,  and  set  out  for  London.  The  greatest 
precaution,  however,  was  needful,  for  at  that  time 
the  country  was  all  alive  in  search  of  him,  500/. 
being  offered,  as  we  before  stated,  for  his  appre- 
hension, supposing  him  still  alive.  The  hardships 
of  this  journey  were  great,  for  it  was  in  the  winter 
season,  and  he  was  afraid  of  entering  large  towns, 
or  almost  of  travelling  by  day-light ;  but  his  life 
was  in  his  hand,  and  there  was  no  alternative. 

Spite  of  his  apparent  poverty,  he  entered  Lon- 
don  with  fifteen  thousand  pounds  in  his  pocket. 
This  money  caused  him  no  inconsiderable  dif- 
ficulty:  he  dared  not  put  it  in  any  bank,  lest  it 
should  had  to  the  natural  inquiry,  how  a  person  of 
his  appearance  had  become  possessed  of  so  large 
a  sum;  and  at  the  same   time  he  was  afraid  to 

N  2 


138  REAPING. 

carry  it  about  him,  lest  he  should  be  robbed  or 
lose  it.  Never  was  money  a  burden  to  him  be- 
fore; he  longed,  even  at  the  risk  of  detection, 
to  assume  his  own  character,  and  to  spend  freely. 
At  length,  tired  out  with  concealment  and  unwil- 
ling thrift  in  London,  he  went  to  Paris.  Paris 
was  then  all  alive  with  her  growing  liberalism,  and 
the  English  were  among  her  most  honoured 
citizens.  Richard  Durant,  however,  had  not  gone 
to  Paris  for  the  indulgence  of  free  opinions,  either 
in  religion  or  politics — but  that  he  might  freely 
spend  his  money.  He  assumed  the  name  of  Col- 
ville,  established  himself  in  one  of  the  principal 
hotels,  hired  servants  in  plenty,  dressed  handsomely, 
and  enjoyed  himself  to  his  heart's  content.  Ere 
long,  the  politics  of  Paris  took  a  turn,  and  that 
edict  was  published  which  required  all  foreigners, 
and  the  English  especially,  to  leave  France.  It 
was  vain  to  think  of  remaining  longer  in  Paris;  he 
could  not  speak  a  word  of  French,  and  his  ap- 
pearance was  not  only  English,  but  anti-demo- 
cratic in  the  extreme;  he  had  too  much  money, 
which  he  wanted  to  spend,  to  be  contented  with 
the  plain  hair  and  shoe-ties  of  the  Rolands.  It 
was  dangerous  at  that  moment  to  be  rich  in  Paris; 
an  arrest  wdfe  signed,  and  the  gensd'armes  waited 
outside  his  door,  to  drag  him  before  the  most 
bloody  of  tribunals. 

But  good  fortune  befriended  him.  An  old 
French  waiter  at  the  hotel  apprised  him  of  his 
danger,  lent  him  a  suit  of  clothes,  and  concealed 
him  for  two  days  in  the  cupboard  of  a  larder, 
assisting  him  afterwards  to  make  his  final  escape 


REAPING  139 

Richard  saved  his  money,  but  his  personal  pro- 
perty, to  a  considerable  amount,  was  confiscated 
to  the  national  use.  He  escaped  to  Boulogne, 
and  thence  to  England.  Here  his  life  was  again 
in  danger;  but,  as  he  had  supported  the  character 
of  an  old  man  with  great  success,  he  determined 
to  maintain  it  still,  as  producing  the  most  com- 
plete disguise.  Hundreds  of  English  had  fled, 
like  himself,  from  Paris;  therefore,  this  circum- 
stance excited  no  surprise.  He  exchanged  at 
Dover  the, dress  of  the  old  French  waiter  for  that 
of  an  old  English  gentleman.  He  wore  a  powdered 
wig,  shaved  off  his  bushy  whiskers,  assumed  a 
slouching  gait  and  stooping  shoulders,  and  had 
the  satisfaction  of  imposing  even  upon  his  tailor; 
he  dropped  also  the  more  remarkable  name  of 
Colville,  and  adopted  that  of  Simpson,  as  suit- 
able to  his  new  charaeter.  He  laughed  heartily, 
as  he  surveyed  himself  in  a  large  mirror,  to  see 
the  complete  metamorphosis:  he  thought  he 
might  defy  Sir  Thomas  Durant  and  Sharpie 
himself. 

By  degrees  he  ventured  out  of  his  London 
lodgings  by  day-light,  and  then  to  public  places; 
at  length,  in  the  wantonness  of  complete  success 
he  seated  himself  by  Sharpie  in  a  box  at  the 
theatre,  nor  was  even  suspected. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Durant's  advertisements 
after  him  had  given  him  the  most  serious  cause  of 
apprehension.  True,  the  promised  reward  had 
been  given  to  Timson,  on  the  discovery  of  the 
ring;  and  the  opinion  of  his  having  perished  vai 
generally    entertained;    and   so    long    as    people 


140  REAPING. 

adopted  that  belief,  he  was  safe.  Nothing,  therefore, 
could  be  more  appalling  to  him  than  his  mother's 
repeated  appeals  to  him ;  and,  for  a  long  time,  he 
determined  not  to  reply — which  was  but  to  her 
the  confirmation  of  the  general  belief.  At  length, 
however,  partly  through  pity  of  her  undoubted 
distress  on  his  account,  and  partly  to  silence  her, 
that  the  subject  at  least  might  die  in  the  public 
mind,  he  wrote  that  letter  to  his  mother  which  she 
received  at  Starkey,  and  which  had  an  effect  con- 
trary to  what  he  intended.  It  brought  her  to 
London. 

Richard,  in  the  character  of  Mr.  Simpson,  had 
become  fearless  of  detection;  he  had  accordingly 
taken  a  house  in  Abingdon-street,  Westminster, 
which  he  had  furnished  handsomely,  and  where 
he  lived  in  a  manner  much  more  accordant  with 
the  age  and  temper  of  Richard  Durant,  than  of 
old  Mr.  Simpson.  He  had  his  acquaintance,  male 
and  female,  and  drove  in  his  handsome  phaeton 
to  the  parks,  and  to  Epsom  and  Ascot  races;  for 
the  old  spirit  was  not  dead  in  him.  Yet  all  this 
while  he  never  forgot  that  his  life  depended  on 
his  prudence;  and  while  he  spent  freely,  and  lived 
indulgently,  he  maintained  his  incognito  with  the 
utmost  care.  No  one  individual  was  made  party 
to  his  secret;  and  he  often  was  greatly  amused  by 
the  discussion  which  his  own  exploits,  character, 
and  supposed  death,  occasioned  among  his  friends, 
and  even  at  his  own  table. 

The  first  intimation  he  had  of  his  mother's 
arrival  in  London  was  from  the  newspaper  adver- 
tisements,   and   it    caused    him    infinite    chagrin. 


REAPING.  141 

He  swore  that  she  would  be  his  ruin;  and  he 
vowed  with  himself,  that,  although  lie  had  as- 
sured her  of  his  being  alive,  he  would  now  sink 
his  identity  as  much  as  if  he  Mere  indeed  dead,  in 
the  hope  that  after  a  few  months'  unsuccessful 
sojourn  in  London,  she  would  again  return  to 
Starkey.  For  several  months  he  persevered  in 
his  silence,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  persisted 
in  it  much  longer,  but  for  an  unexpected  circum- 
stance. He  was  robbed  to  a  large  amount  by  his 
valet,  whom  he  dared  not  prosecute,  lest  it  should 
lead  to  his  own  detection.  He  had,  moreover, 
lived  with,  the  most  reckless  disregard  of  conse- 
quences; had  frequented  gaming-houses,  and 
been  fleeced  by  sharpers  more  cunning  than  him- 
self. To  use  a  homely  phrase,  Richard  was 
"  bringing  his  ninepence  to  a  groat." 

Anxieties  for  the  future  now,  for  the  first  time, 
took  hold  of  him;  he  would  fain  have  disentangled 
himself  of  his  growing  difficulties,  but  forethought 
and  economy  had  never  been  habits  of  his  mind. 
It  was  but  little  more  than  twelve  months  since 
the  burning  of  Stanton-Combe;  he  had  then 
nearly  fifteen  thousand  pounds;  now  there  re- 
mained scarcely  one.  The  money  had  vanished 
like  smoke;  it  had  run  through  his  hands  like 
water,  and  he  cursed  himself  as  the  most  unlucky 
of  men. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  he  cast  his  eye  on 
his  mother's  last  advertisement.  He  had  now  less 
objection  than  formerly  to  make  himself  known 
to  her;  for  when  poverty  came  upon  him,  as  an 
%rmed  man,  as  it  seemed  likely  enough  soon  to 


142  REAPING. 

do,  he  knew  that  his  mother  would  not  let  him  be 
educed  to  extremity.  Some  little  he  thought  of 
what  account  he  must  render  of  the  spending  of 
his  money;  that,  however,  was  easy;  he  told  his 
story  in  brief,  as  we  have  heard,  and  his  mother 
did  not  reproach  him,  but  was  filled  with  com- 
passion. Of  his  home,  in  Westminster,  he  said 
nothing,  and  bound  his  mother  also  by  a  solemn 
promise,  not  to  inquire  after  his  residence. 

After  having  made  himself  known  to  his  mothrr 
and  sister,  he  paid  them  repeated  visits,  alwajs, 
however,  in  the  evening,  and  with  great  precau- 
tion. Mrs.  Durant,  who  was  possessed  with  the 
idea  of  his  suffering  from  want,  supplied  him  from 
time  to  time  with  the  money  which  she  received 
from  Lady  Thicknisse;  and  even  when  that 
failed,  with  jewels  and  plate,  which  she  besought 
him  to  turn  into  money.  Elizabeth,  too,  out  of 
her  small  earnings,  bestowed  upon  him  the  oc- 
casional guinea  which  otherwise  would  have  helped 
to  replenish  her  scanty  wardrobe. 

Mrs.  Durant  had  kept  her  promise  to  him  re- 
ligiously; she  had  neither  inquired  from  him,  nor 
used  any  means  to  learn  where  his  residence  might 
be :  it  came,  however,  to  her  knowledge  one  day 
most  unexpectedly.  Elizabeth  had  made  a  small 
spray  of  summer  flowers  for  a  lady  in  West- 
minster, and,  as  the  evenings  were  then  long  and 
fine,  she  had  invited  her  mother  to  walk  with  hei 
to  take  them  home.  She  consented.  On  theii 
way  they  met  the  Franklins,  who  were  going  to 
hear  evening  service  in  the  Abbey,  and  invited 
Elizabeth  and  her  mother  to  accompany  them. 


REAPING.  143 

Mrs  Durant  declined,  but  offered  to  leave  the 
spray  of  flowers  for  her  daughter,  that-jshe  might 
not  be  deprived  of  a  pleasure — for  pleasure  to  her 
was  indeed  a  rarUy,  as  her  mother  acknowledged. 
Greatly  nv.ist  Mrs.  Durant  have  been  changed 
«md  humbled,  since  her  proud  days  at  Stanton- 
Combe,  to  make  such  an  offer  as  this  to  her 
daughter;  but  she  teas  changed.  Sorrow  changes 
us  even  more  than  time. 

On  her  return  she  happened  to  lose  her  way,  and 
got  into  Abingdon-street.  But  the  street  she  knew 
not,  nor  inquired  after  at  the  moment,  for  she  saw 
an  object  that  sunk  all  other  thoughts  and  cares — 
her  own  son,  in  his  usual  dress  as  Mr.  Simpson, 
standing  on  the  steps  of*  a  house,  where  he  rang, 
and  familiarly  entered  as  at  his  own  home.  "  Who 
lives  at  No.  — ?"  asked  she,  with  scarcely  articu- 
late voice,  from  the  sweeper  of  a  crossing  hard  by , 
the  man  replied  that  it  was  "  one  Mr.  Simpson, 
an  old  man,  but  a  gay  one !"  "  A  lodger,  he  is, 
I  suppose  ?"  said  she,  willing  to  hope  the  deceit 
less  than  she  at,  first  imagined.  "  Oh,  no  !"  said 
the  man,   "  he  has  the  whole  house  to  himself!" 

Mrs.  Durant  at  the  moment  felt  that  she  would 
rather  have  found  her  son  asking  alms  in  the  street, 
than  thus  enjoying  luxury  and  comfort  which  was 
only  evidence  of  the  selfish  imposition  he  had 
practised  on  her.  An  indignant  sense  of  having 
been  a  dupe  stung  her  to  the  heart,  and  she  de- 
termined at  once  to  present  herself  before  him  in 
that  very  house,  the  knowledge  of  which  he  had 
so  carefully  kept  from  her.     She  knocked  at  the 


144  P  RAPING. 

door,  and  was  informed  by  the  servant  who  had 
just  before  admitted  her  son,  that  "  Mr.  Simpson 
was  not  at  home." 

"  Mr.  Simpson,"  returned  she  peremptorily, 
"  has  but  this  moment  entered." 

The  servant  persisted  that  she  was  mistaken: 
"his  master,"  he  said, "  would  not  return  that  night." 

"  Tell  me  no  lies,  sirrah!"  said  she,  assuming 
at  once  the  stern  authority  of  the  mistress  oi 
Stanton-Conibe;  "I  have  seen  your  master  within 
these  three  minutes  admitted  by  yourself." 

The  servant  did  not  reply,  but  looked  puzzled. 
"Give  him  this  ring,"  she  continued,  drawing  one 
well  known  to  her  son  from  her  hand,  "  and  bid 
him  admit  me !" 

The  servant  received  the  ring,  but  hesitated. 

"  I  wait  here,"  said  she,  entering  the  hall,  and 
seating  herself;  "  you  go  and  do  my  bidding !" 

Full  of  curiosity,  and  wondering  what  all  this 
meant,  the  servant  carried  the  ring  to  his  master. 
Richard  was  sitting  at  that  moment,  with  four  of 
his  friends,  at  a  table  covered  with  a  plentiful  re- 
past. The  servant  presented  the  ring,  saying  it 
was  sent  in  by  a  lady  who  demanded  to  see 
him.  "  A  most  queen-like  summons,  truly  !"  ex- 
claimed his  friends,  laughing,  and  began  merrily 
to  interrogate  the  servant  as  to  what  was  the  lady's 
seeming. 

E'chard  said  not  a  word  in  reply,  but,  dropping 
the  ring  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  bit  his  lip  and 
went  out.  It  was  a  rencontre  he  was  not  pre- 
pared for.     He  thoup V%  for  one  moment,  that  he 


REAPING.  145 

would  deny  his  own  identity,  but  the  next,  he 
remembered  his  mother's  ready  forgiveness,  and 
determined  to  brave  it  out. 

Mrs.  Durant,  who  had  listened  for  the  servant's 
return,  instantly  recognised  the  step  of  her  son  on 
the  stairs;  she  opened,  therefore,  the  door  of  a 
iower  room,  as  if  she  herself  had  been  mistress  of 
the  house,  and,  with  an  air  of  offended  dignity, 
motioned  for  him  to  enter  also.  He  did  so,  and 
she  closed  the  door  upon  them.  Something  he 
said  of  the  prodigal  son,  and  hastened  to  embrace 
her.  She  Had  never  repelled  his  embrace  before, 
but  at  that. moment  she  did  it. 

"  This  is  a  discovery,  Richard,"  she  said,  "  that 
I  did  not  expect  to  make  !" 

A  base  lie  sprung  to  his  lips;  he  said  he  was 
but  a  lodger,  and  that  the  house  was  none  of  his. 

"  Unworthy  young  man  !"  exclaimed  she,  with 
singular  severity,  "may  God  forgive  you  for  the 
falsehood  you  have  spoken!" 

Richard,  unabashed,  persisted  that  he  had  not 
deceived  her,  and  that  he  was  suffering  poverty. 

"  Poverty  !"  she  exclaimed,  glancing  upon  his 
dress;  "does  this  look  like  poverty?  Look  at 
my  shoes ;  see,  they  are  patched  and  cobbled ! 
why  have  I  worn  such  ?  Because  you  received 
the  solitary  guinea;  because  you  received  also 
that  which  could  be  turned  into  money,  and  I 
could  ill  spare,  on  the  plea  of  your  want !" 

Richard  tried  to  excuse  himself  by  urging  the 
need  there  was  to  keep  all  knowledge  of  himself 
from  every  one. 

'  That  is  no  argument,"  replied  she,  "  for,  in 
o 


146  REAPING. 

health  or  in  sickness,  in  want  or  in  prosperity, 
wnat  had  you  to  fear  from  me?  Oh,  Richard  !" 
continued  she,  after  a  moment's  pause,  in  which 
he  said  nothing,  "  I  would  rather  have  found  you 
wanting  bread,  than  have  come  thus  upon  your 
concealed  luxury  !  Heaven  forgive  you  I  for  you 
have  cruelly  deceived,  and  even  despoiled,  the 
kindest  of  mothers  !"     And  she  wept  bitterly. 

"  Madam !"  exclaimed  he,  as  she  again  broke 
forth  with  passionate  upbraidings,  "  silence !  or 
you  will  betray  me  !  They  who  were  above  stairs 
with  me,  and  my  very  servants,  may  be  listening 
— I  shall  be  betrayed  !" 

"  Fool  !"  returned  she,  "  to  have  put  your  life 
in  hazard  of  strangers;  far  better  to  have  trusted 
your  mother!" 

"  Silence  !  silence  !"  said  Richard,  speaking  in 
an  under  tone,  but  in  his  own  voice;  "silence,  I 
command — and  leave  the  house  1  I  cannot  have 
my  safety  thus  endangered  !" 

"  I  will  go  !"  returned  she;  "  but  oh!  Richard! 
this  I  have  not  deserved  !" 

"  Not  another  word !"  said  he,  taking  her  by 
the  arm,  and  hurrying  her  to  the  outer  door.  The 
door  was  closed  upon  her,  and  she  stood  for  two 
seconds  upon  the  steps,  that  she  might  control  the 
emotion  w  Inch  wrung  her  heart  almost  to  break- 
ing. An  hour  afterwards,  as  she  was  on  her  way 
home,  not  pondering  on,  but  hurrying  over  in  her 
own  mind  this  strange  interview  with  her  undutifuJ 
son,  she  remembered  that  she  had  come  away 
without  her  ring. 

When  Richard  returned  to  his  friends,  he  spoke 


REAPING.  147 

of  his  visitor  as  insane,  and  reproached  his  servant 
for  admitting  her ;  and  thus  the  affair  passed  off 
with  them.  It  however  hurried  the  day  which  he 
had  seen  approaching — the  day  when  he  must 
sink  a  few  steps  lower  in  life.  He  secured  all  his 
valuables  which  were  portable,  and  had  them 
secretly  conveyed  to  lodgings  more  accordant 
with  his  diminishing  means ;  and  on  a  certain  Mon- 
day morning,  about  a  month  after  his  mother's 
visit,  went  away,  leaving  his  servants  and  his 
landlord  to  settle  between  themselves  which  had 
best  claim  to  his  goods,  seeing  they  had  both  law- 
ful claims  upon  his  purse. 

He  did  not  doubt  but  that  his  mother  was 
grievously  hurt  and  offended;  but  as  he  had  never 
learned  to  spare  her  feelings,  he  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  be  much  concerned  on  that  account 
now.  His  only  determination  regarding  her  was, 
that  he  would  keep  out  of  her  way;  and  if  he  did 
that  only  long  enough,  she  would  be  willing,  he 
knew,  to  forget  and  forgive  when  they  met. 

In  the  meantime,  although  confidence  was 
growing  between  Elizabeth  and  her  mother;  Mrs. 
Durant  carefully  kept  from  her  knowledge  every- 
thing to  the  disadvantage  of  her  son.  Not  a  word 
did  she  say  of  the  discovery  she  had  made  ;  and 
the  poor  girl  attributed  her  pale  and  haggard 
countenance,  at  first,  to  the  fatigue  of  an  unusual 
walk;  and  when,  afterwards,  she  discovered  that 
her  mother  suffered  from  restless  nights,  and  that 
something  seemed  to  be  oppressing  her  mind  by 
day,  she  strove  all  in  her  power  to  amuse  her,  and 
6toIe  many  an  hour  from  her  needful  labour,  to 


148  REAPING. 

read  to  her,  or  to  walk  out  with  her.  It  was  no 
wonder,  she  thought,  that  this  altered  way  of  life 
produced  such  effects:  she  therefore  proposed  that 
they  should  leave  their  city  lodgings  and  go  into 
the  suburbs,  or,  better  still,  to  Richmond,  where  her 
mother  might  have  the  comfort  of  friendly  neigh- 
bours. To  this  proposal,  however,  Mrs.  Durant 
invariably  answered  that  she  would  never  expose 
Richard  to  the  danger  of  being  suspected;  besides, 
how  could  he  find  them  if  they  changed  their 
dwelling  unknown  to  him? 

It  was  not  long  before  there  appeared  a  suffi- 
cient cause  for  Mrs.  Durant's  anxiety,  in  the 
unusually  long  absence  of  her  son.  Richard 
understood  his  mother's  heart  perfectly,  when  he 
said  that  if  he  kept  out  of  her  way  she  would  be 
soon  ready  to  forget  and  forgive;  by  degrees 
resentment  faded  before  affection,  and  with  affec- 
tion came  all  the  old  anxiety.  She  therefore  set 
off  again  to  Westminster,  in  order  merely  to  pass 
his  door,  and  so  judge  by  the  exterior  of  his 
residence,  how  it  went  with  him.  He  had  then 
been  gone  from  his  house  two  or  three  weeks, 
and  new  residents  were  there,  but  externally  there 
was  no  change.  At  the  moment  she  passed  by,  a 
fat  female  servant  was  buying  a  ballad  from  a 
ballad-monger  at  the  area-steps,  and  a  chariot  was 
just  driving  away  from  the  door.  It  contained 
her  son,  she  had  no  doubt.  A  sense  of  injury 
again  passed  over  her  mind,  but  it  died  away  in 
unspeakable  sorrow,  and  she  returned  home  with 
her  usual  aching  heart. 

Again  and  again  she  took  the  same  long  walk, 


REAPING.  149 

merely  to  assure  herself  that  all  was  well  with*  him; 
and  month  and  after  month  wore  on  m  the  same 
melancholy  way.  At  length  she  found  the  win- 
dow-shutters closed,  the  door-steps  soiled  by 
frequent  foot-prints,  straw  and  litter  lying  within 
the  area,  and  a  paper  in  the  lower  window,  an- 
nouncing that  the  house  was  to  be  let. 

Was  it  possible  that  Richard  was  dead?  The 
idea  entered  her  heart  like  the  point  of  a  dagger, 
and  she  leant  against  a  lamp-post,  to  save  herself 
from  falling.  A  glass  of  water  was  offered  her 
by  a  poor  woman  who  sold  fruit  at  a  stall  on  the 
pavement  Mrs.  Durant  spoke  of  the  heat  of  the 
weather,  and  a  sudden  faintness  which  it  had  oc- 
casioned, and  then  asked  her  benefactress  "  if 
there  had  not  been  a  sale  at  No.  — ?" 

"  Why,  ma'am,  that's,  as  one  may  say,  a  very 
unlucky  "house  !  There  was  an  execution  for  rent, 
as  took  away  all  the  goods,  the  day  before  yester- 
day !  I  hates  them  executioners,  ma'am !  Even 
the  very  children's  beds  were  taken  from  under 
them.     Landlords,  ma'am,  have  no  hearts !" 

"  Children !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Durant,  some- 
what relieved,  in  the  hope  that  she  had  mistaken 
the  number;  "  there  were  no  children;  Mr. 
Simpson  was  unmarried !" 

"  Oh !  ma'am  !"  replied  the  woman,  "  Mr. 
Simpson's  been  gone  this  half-year;  stick  and 
stone,    his   goods   were    sold    up  last  quarter:    I 

always  took  him  for  a  raffish  sort  of  a but, 

la !  ma'am,  are  you  ill  again  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  returned  Mrs.  Durant,  supporting 
herself  by    the    iron    railing    against   which  the 

O  2 


150  REAPING. 

woman  sat;  "I  am  not  ill;  but  this  Mr.  Simpson, 
where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  Nobody  knows !"  said  the  fruitseller. 

"  Perhaps  in  jail !"  sighed  Mrs.  Durant. 

"  Likely  enough,  ma'am,"  returned  the  woman. 
"  for  his  credit  was  none  of  the  best  before  he  left 
here." 

Mrs.  Durant  made  no  further  inquiries,  but 
with  anxiety  in  her  countenance,  that  attracted  the 
eyes  of  many  a  passer-by,  bent  her  steps  home- 
ward. 

Elizabeth  had  never  inquired  what  was  the 
caiise  which  every  now  and  then  took  her  motl  er 
from  home;  she  believed  it  had  reference  to  her 
brother;  and,  as  it  appeared  to  be  purposely  kept 
from  her,  she  respected  the  secrecy. 

It  was  later  than  ordinary,  on  this  particular 
evening,  when  Mrs.  Durant  returned  home.  Her 
daughter  met  her,  as  usual,  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  but  there  was  a  peculiarity  in  her  manner 
which  excited  her  mother's  attention;  she  was, 
more  than  ordinarily  affectionate:  the  truth  was, 
she  had  painful  news  to  communicate  ;  but  the  first 
glance  at  her  mother's  agitated  countenance  led 
her  to  suspect  that  she  was  no  stranger  to  it. 

"  So  you  have  seen  Richard,  then  ?"  asked 
Elizabeth,  in  this  belief. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  no!"  exclaimed  her  mother; 
"  but  what  do  you  know  of  him  ?" 

"  He  has  been  here,"  returned  she. 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  Mrs.  Durant;  "  then  he 
is  not  in  jail !     But  quick,  tell  me  all !" 

"  He  came,"  replied   Elizabeth,    scarcely   re- 


REAPING.  151 

pressing  her  tears,  "  to  ask  relief  from  us.  He 
has  been  ill,  he  says,  and  looks  miserably  poor !" 

"  Oh  I  my  unhappy  boy  !"  exclaimed  his  mo- 
ther ;  "  where  is  he,  for  I  will  go  to  him  to-night !" 
and  she  again  threw  on  her  cloak. 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Elizabeth,  rising  to 
detain  her,  "  for  I  know  not  where  he  is,  nor  yet 
do  I  know  the  circumstances  which  led  to  his  pre- 
sent distress;  but  of  its  reality  I  cannot  doubt. 
Poor  fellow  !"  said  she,  again  weeping,  "  I  should 
not  have  -known  him  scarcely,  for  sickness  and 
poverty  have  sorely  changed  him  !" 

More  than  the  enduring  strength  of  Mrs.  Du- 
rant's  old  affection  had  now  returned.  "  He  will  not 
fail  in  duty  to  me  now,"  said  she,  "  for  they  to  whom 
much  is  forgiven,  the  same  love  much ;  we  shall 
be  happier  than  we  have  been  before !"  And 
night  and  dav  she  had  no  thought  but  how  she 
might  benefit  him. 

It  was  not  long  before  Richard  again  made  his 
appearance,  for  he  was  now  reduced  to  poverty — 
to  the  wrant  of  bread,  and  even  the  shelter  of  a 
roof.  He  dared  not,  he  said,  ask  for  employment, 
lest  it  should  lead  to  questions  that  would  occasion 
his  detection.  It  was  equally  dangerous  for  him 
to  be  seen  frequently  at  the  home  of  his  mother 
and  sister;  they  had  taken  no  means  to  conceal 
themselves  from  public  knowledge,  and  with  them, 
therefore,  he  was  in  danger.  He  bewailed  his 
fate  with  the  most  abject  spirit,  and  called  upon 
his  mother  to  devise  aid  for  him.  No  means  of 
saving  him  suggested  itself  to  her,  but  the  remov- 
ing  from    their   present   lodgings,  assuming   for 


1j>2  reaping. 

themselves  a  false  name,  and  taking  Richard  to 
live  with  them. 

They  removed,  accordingly,  to  a  small  house  at 
Holloway,  and  Elizabeth  excused  the  removal  to 
her  friends,  the  Franklins,  on  the  plea  of  her  mo- 
ther's health  and  comfort.  Mrs.  Durant  and  her 
son  assumed  the  every-day  name  of  Jones,  he  per- 
sonating, as  formerly,  the  character  of  an  elderly 
man. 

"  It  required  more  than  Elizabeth's  former 
efforts  to  earn  what  was  additionally  needful  for 
the  maintenance  of  a  third  person ;  but  as  her 
brother  professed  himself  grateful,  and  willing  in 
any  way  to  assist  her,  she  never  complained. 
Richard  could  not  help  her  in  her  own  peculiar 
and  delicate  art ;  but  one  thing  he  could  do,  he 
could  carry  her  weekly  work  home  to  Horobin's, 
and  thus  save  her  time  and  fatigue,  now  that  they 
lived  so  far  from  the  city.  She  received  her 
wages  monthly,  and  at  the  month's  end  she  herself 
went  to  receive  a  larger  sum  than  ordinary,  for  she 
had  worked  more  industriously  than  ever  before. 
What  was  her  inexpressible  chagrin,  therefore,  to 
learn  that  her  messenger  had  received  it  that  very 
morning!  She  concealed  her  feelings,  and,  filled 
with  the  most  uneasy  suspicion,  returned  home. 
Richard  made  no  attempt  to  deny  it:  he  was 
pressed,  he  said,  by  one  single  debt;  he  feared  a 
prison;  and,  with  the  money  in  his  pocket,  he 
could  not  resist  thus  applying  it.  Elizabeth  said 
that  it  was  both  selfish  and  dishonest ;  that  he  at 
least  should  have  asked  her  leave;  and  that,  in 
twelve  months,  she  could  not  make  up  the  loss  by 


REAPING.  153 

extra  work;  but  she  never  told  her  mother:  and, 
as  Richard  himself  appeared  humbled  and  peni- 
tent, and  promised  not  to  offend  again,  could  he 
but  regain  her  confidence,  she  at  length  gave  it, 
that  he  might  at  least  have  the  means  of  deserving 
it.  She  worked  harder  than  ever;  her  mother 
was  out  of  health  and  spirits,  and  the  poor  girl 
thought,  if  she  could  only  raise  ten  pounds,  and 
send  her  to  the  sea-side  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  it 
might  be  the  means  of  restoring  her.  Never  were 
artificial  flowers  made  so  assiduously  before:  she 
even  made  a  vain  attempt  to  instruct  her  brother 
in  cutting  the  forms  of  leaves  and  petals,  so  that 
she  might  realize  her  little  scheme  before  the  year 
was  too  late.  Richard  took  in  her  flowers  now 
twice  a  week,  for  they  were  in  great  demand ;  and 
as  this  first  pleasure  seemed  about  to  be  realized, 
she  even  fancied  herself  happy. 

When  the  month  was  nearly  completed,  she 
was  surprised  one  day  by  a  visit  from  Nehemiah 
Netley.  It  was  now  long  since  she  had  seen  him, 
or  any  of  her  Richmond  friends,  for  all  London 
lay  between  them ;  and  friends  so  situated  soon 
find  that  it  is  as  easy  to  visit  on  opposite  sides  of  a 
county  as  on  opposite  sides  of  the  great  city.  Mr. 
Netley  looked  hurried  and  angry  as  he  entered 
the  little  parlour  in  which  Elizabeth  sat  at  work, 
and  in  which  Richard  also  lay  half  asleep  on  a 
sofa. 

"Oh!"  said  he,  entering,  and  then  drawing 
back,  as  he  caught  sight  of  Richard. 

Elizabeth  rose  from  her  work,  and  went  to  the 
door. 


154  REAPING. 

«  Who  is  this  Mr.  Jones?"  asked  he,  abruptly 
without  any  salutation,  the  moment  she  closed  tho 
door  of  the  other  Little  parlour,  into  which  she 
took  him;  "  not  a  husband,  I  hope!" 

"  No,  indeed,  sir,"  replied  Elizabeth,  blushing. 

"  Who  then  is  he  ?"  asked  Mr.  Netley. 

"  He  is,"  replied  she,  "  a  relation,  who  has 
fallen  into  distress:  but  why  do  you  inquire?" 

"  Why  do  I  inquire,  Miss  Durant!"  answered 
Mr.  Netley,  growing  angry;  "why,  indeed!  for 
he  seems  a  good-for-nothing  vagabond  !  Do  yoa 
know  that  you  need  not  make  any  more  flowers 
for  Horobin?  Nay,  never  look  at  me  in  that 
way.  I  say,  you  need  not  make  any  more  flowers 
for  Horobin — and  that's  plain  English,  is  it  not?" 

"  My  dear  sir!"  exclaimed  Elizabeth. 

"  Did  not  Horobin  order  that  that  fellow  Jones 
should  not  again  come  about  his  place?"  asked 
the  old  man ;  "  and  yet  you  must  send  him  there 
twice  every  week.  1  did  not  bespeak  Horobin's 
custom  on  these  terms." 

Elizabeth  heaved  a  deep  sigh — for  she  knew  that 
her  brother  had  again  deceived  her — and  dropped 
into  a  chair.  Mr.  Netley  sat  down  beside  her; 
"  I  have  a  shrewd  guess,  Miss  Durant,"  said  he, 
"  who  this  Mr.  Jones  may  be  :  he  is  your  bro- 
ther!" 

Elizabeth  started,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"  He  is  your  brother,"  the  old  gentleman  con- 
tinued, "  but  I  shall  not  betray  you:  I  like  you 
too  well  for  that:  but  you  have  done  foolishly 
— all  women  do  foolishly,  when  their  hearts  are 


REAPING.  155 

concerned — whether  it  be  for  a  lover  or  a  brother  I 
But  I  shall  not  betray  you !  And  I'll  tell  you 
what  you  must  do :  you  must  go  home  with  me ; 
I  am  come  all  the  way  from  Richmond  on  pur- 
pose !" 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  mother;  indeed,  my  dear 
sir,  I  cannot!"  said  Elizabeth. 

"  As  you  please,"  returned  he;  "  but  this  I 
can  tell  you — you  have  done  your  last  work  for 
Horobin.  You'll  have  a  dismissal  to-day.  Jones 
was  there  last  night : — and  so  you  never  heard  of 
it?" 

Elizabeth  looked  greatly  dismayed,  and  said 
that  she  had  not.  At  that  moment  the  postman's 
knock  was  heard,  and  she  received  the  letter  from 
Horobin. 

"  You  ought  to  have  had  more  sense  than  to 
have  run  yourself  into  this  dilemma!"  said  Mr. 
Netley,  as  Elizabeth  dropped  the  letter  from  her 
hand,  "  but  you  must  decide;  for  let  me  tell  you, 
I  am  not  the  only  one  who  suspects  Jones  to  be 
your  brother;  and  if  the  idea  once  gets  to  Sharpie 
and  Sir  Thomas,  the  Bow-street  fellows  will  be 
upon  him  instantly  !" 

Elizabeth  proposed  to  call  her  mother;  and,  as 
he  saw  no  objection  to  this,  it  was  done ;  she  obtain- 
ing, however,  a  promise  from  him,  that  her  mother 
should  know  nothing  of  the  injury  Richard  had 
done  her;  "  for,"  said  she,  "  there  will  he  sorrow 
enough  without  this  being  added." 

On  the  first  mention  of  Mr.  Nethy's  suspicion 
respecting  the  person  of  Jones,  Mrs.  Durant  made 
up  her  mind  to  instant  flight  with  her  son;  and, 


166  REAPING. 

in  order  that  her  daughter  might  not  be  without 
a  home  and  protectors,  she  insisted  upon  her 
accepting  Mr.  Netley's  offer,  in  the  firm  belief 
that  she  possessed  the  means  of  providing  a  com- 
fortable maintenance  for  herself.  The  business 
was  soon  settled,  and  Mr.  Netley  gave  Elizabeth 
till  evening,  to  make  preparations  for  her  removal, 
at  which  time  he  promised  to  return  for  her. 

Mrs.  Durant  was  deeply  affected  on  parting 
with  her  daughter,  whose  worth  and  affection 
had  been  made  known  to  her  under  such  trying 
circumstances.  She  shed  tears,  and  embraced 
her  tenderly.  "  God  bless  you,"  she  said;  "  I 
shall  oftt'n  think  of  you — for  you  have  been  a 
good  girl!" 

The  five  pounds  which  Elizabeth  had  earned 
and  put  by,  she  now  prayed  her  mother  to  accept; 
but  this  she  would  not  do.  "  No,  child!"  said 
she,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  put  it  out  of  my 
sight — I  never  thought  to  have  been  thus  affected ! 
— put  it  by;  and  keep  this  brooch  for  my  sake!" 
said  she,  taking  out  the  one  she  was  wearing;  "  it 
will  not  be  an  unlucky  gift  to  you,  though  it  has 
a  pin  in  it;  but  I  have  lost  my  best  ring,  or  that 
should  have  been  yours  instead.  Now  Heaven 
bless  you !  there  is  no  knowing  what  may  happen 
before  we  meet  again." 

Before  Mr.  Netley  again  made  his  appearance, 
Mrs.  Durant  had  regained  her  wonted  composure; 
but  it  was  with  a  long  and  earnest  gaze  that  she 
watched  the  hackney-coach  which  contained  Mr. 
Netley  aud  her  daughter,  drive  away  from  the 
door. 


157 


CHAPTER   XV. 

HEAPING,    CONTINUED. 

We  must  now  advance  two  years  in  our  story, 
and  we  shall  find  Elizabeth  Durant,  patient  and 
industrious  as  we  left  her,  pursuing  her  humble 
avocation  still;  for,  through  Mr.  Netley's  inter- 
ference, she  had  long  been  restored  to  the  em- 
ployment of  Mr.  Horobin.  She  was  now  four- 
and-twenty,  and,  for  anything  she  could  discover, 
a  life  of  labour  lay  before  her.  It  would  have 
touched  any  kind  heart  that  even  bad  not  known 
her  history,  to  have  seen  one  like  her,  capable  of 
every  enjoyment  of  intellect  and  taste,  yet  bound 
down  by  the  necessity  of  her  circumstances,  to  the 
most  incessant  occupation.  Few  pleasures — such, 
at  least,  as  the  wealthy  and  the  gay  call  pleasure 
— was  she  able  to  enjoy,  for  she  had  neither  time 
nor  money  to  spend.  But  there  was  the  almost 
daily  intercourse  with  her  kind  friends,  the 
Franklins,  for  she  had  a  lodging  near  them;  there 
was  the  pleasant  evening  and  Sunday  stroll  in 
the  park  at  Richmond,  and  on  the  terrace,  and 
occasionally  a  sail  on  the  Thames;  kind  letters, 
too,  from  dear  Mrs.  Betty  Thicknisse,  who  never 
could  forsake  her,  and  that  internal  consciousness 
of  duty  faithfully  performed,  both  to  God  and 
man,  which  is  the  sure  reward  of  the  right-doer, 
and  which  is  to  the  moral  being  like  sound  health 
to  the  body.  This  was  the  bright  side  of  her  life; 
but  there  was  a  dark  side  also.     Her  mother  had 

r 


158 


REAPING. 


assured  her  at  parting,  that  she  would  write  often. 
It  was  more  than  Elizabeth  expected;  but  she 
hoped,  at  all  events,  to  have  continued  knowledge 
of  her  residence  and  of  her  circumstances,  that, 
if  need  were,  she  might  administer  aid  or  comfort. 
She  had  received  but  two  letters,  and  those  within 
the  first  six  months  after  their  separation.  The 
first  was  dated  from  Greenwich,  and  was  short, 
but  not  unsatisfactory:  it  spoke  of  her  improved 
health,  and  assured  her  of  her  comfort;  it  stated 
also,  that  Richard  had  never  failed  in  his  duty, 
and  that,  please  God  there  was  peace  with 
France,  she  proposed  their  removing  there,  as 
living  would  be  cheap,  and  Richard  might  there 
find  employment,  which  he  could  not  well  do  in 
London. 

The  second  letter  was  written  five  months  after- 
wards; it  was  dated,  but  the  address  had  been  so 
carefully  crossed  and  scored  over,  that  she  could 
not  make  it  out.  This  was  of  itself  a  painful  cir- 
cumstance; there  was  something  to  conceal:  it 
said  nothing  also  of  "  comfort,"  or  of  "  Richard's 
dutiful  behaviour;"  and  excused  long  silence  by 
complaints  of  "ill-health  and  want  of  spirits." 
There  was  everything  in  the  letter  to  excite  un- 
easiness, if  not  alarm.  After  that  time,  not  a 
word  of  intelligence  was  received,  either  from 
Richard  or  her  mother.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
great  gulf  of  London  had  swallowed  them  up 
and  Elizabeth  experienced  anxiety  little  inferior 
to  that  of  her  mother,  when  first  seeking  after 
her  son. 

Month  after  month  went  on,  till  two  years  had 


REAPING.  159 

elapsed.  At  that  time  Elizabeth  received  an 
order  to  make  some  flowers  for  a  noble  lady  in 
one  of  the  fashionable  squares,  and  was  desired 
to  go  in  person,  that  she  might  receive  a  quantity 
of  hot-house  flowers,  which  she  was  to  imitate. 
In. returning  home,  fearing  lest  the  flowers  should 
be  injured,  she  called  a  coach  from  a  stand  in 
Oxford-street.  No  waterman  was  at  hand  to  open 
the  door,  and  the  driver  dismounted  for  that  pur- 
pose; their  eyes  met — a  pang  thr.lltd  through 
her  heart, /or  the  man  surely  was  her  brother! — 
muffled  up  and  disguised;  but  through  all,  and 
more,  through  poverty  and  degradation,  and  traces 
of  low  vice,  she  recognised  the  countenance  too 
well.  She  could  scarcely  articulate  her  directions, 
and  fixed,  without  questioning  him,  her  eyes 
inquiringly  on  his  face:  he  only  returned  an  un- 
pleasant wink,  and  then  mounted  his  box,  leaving 
her  in  the  most  painful  suspense.  Could  it 
indeed  be  Richard? — If  so,  how  hopelessly 
fallen! — and  her  mother — what  might  not  be  her 
fate  in  this  horribly  downward  course!  She  felt 
almost  inclined  to  stop  the  coach,  and  question 
him  by  the  way;  but  an  undefined  fear  crept 
over  her — a  dread  both  of  him,  and  of  what  she 
might  have  to  learn.  She  remembered,  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction,  that  she  had  ordered  him  to 
drive  t}  Mr.  Netley's;  and  when  there,  without 
venturing  another  glance  on  the  countenance  so 
painfully  interesting,  she  begged  him  to  wait  till 
she  fetched  him  the  fare  from  within,  intending 
hastily  to  consult  with  her  friends,  to  whom  all 
her  anxieties  were  known.     No  sooner,  however, 


160 


REAPING. 


was  she  within  doors,  than  he  mounted  the  box, 
and  drove  off  without  his  fare.  That  was  alone 
confirmation. 

Good  Mr.  Netley,  as  soon  as  he  had  heard  the 
circumstance,  set  off  to  London  to  speak  with 
him  himself,  for  Elizabeth  had  taken  the  number. 
The  coach,  however,  was  not  upon  the  stand,  nor 
could  the  other  hackney-coachmen  give  any 
information  respecting  him:  he  had  not  been 
many  days  among  them,  but  had  come  there,  they 
said,  from  the  stand  near  Vauxhall-bridge.  That 
was  all  they  knew.  The  proprietor  of  the  Coach 
knew  nothing  more.  The  man,  he  said,  went  by 
the  name  of  Walker;  but  where  he  lived,  or  what 
was  his  character,  he  knew  not: — so  that  he  got 
his  coach-hire,  that  was  all  his  concern.  Mr. 
Netley  said  he  would  wait  till  the  coach  came  in, 
even  if  it  were  past  midnight.  It  was  brought  in 
about  eleven  o'clock  by  another  person,  who  had 
been  employed,  he  said,  by  Walker  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  that  Walker  would  not  take  the  coach 
again.  Richard,  then,  was  providing  against  in- 
quiries; and  Mr.  Netley  could  only  return  with 
this  unsatisfactory  information. 

One  fact,  however,  was  ascertained — Richard 
was  now  the  driver  of  a  hackney-coach. 

By  swift  degrees  he  had  sunk  lower  and  lower, 
dragging  after  him  his  devoted  mother,  who,  by 
this  time,  had  been  despoiled  of  all  her  personal 
possessions,  and  subsisted  alone  on  Lady  Thick- 
nisse's  bounty;  yet  through  all  she  clung  to  him; 
"  for  who,"  said  she,  "  would  stand  by  him,  if  I 
deserted  him?" 


REAPING.  161 

Poor  Mrs.  Durant!  Did  she  ever  think  of  her 
proud  days,  when  they  rode  together  over  the 
broad  lands  of  his  fathers,  her  heart  swelling  with 
exultation,  because  she  was  the  mother  of  a  fair 
boy! 

"  God  help  us !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Durant — squa- 
lidly dressed,  and  with  a  haggard  countenance,  as 
Richard,  on  this  very  night,  was  brought  to  his 
home  in  White  Chapel,  miserably  drunken,  and 
laid  on  his  bed  by  two  of  his  pot-companions — 
"  Heavei!  help  us!  What  a  beast  he  makes  of 
himself!?  added  she,  when  they  were  left  alone 
together.  "  I  need  not  have  cooked  him  this  nice 
chop,  which  should  have  been  my  dinner,  had  I 
known  that  he  would  have  come  home  thus,  after 
all  his  promises."  And  Mrs.  Durant  took  up  the 
covered  dish  from  the  fire,  and  began  deliberately 
to  remove  the  supper-table,  which  she  had  spread 
for  his  coming.  "  It  is  no  use  my  sitting  down  to 
eat,"  said  she,  "  for  I  could  not  touch  a  morsel 
now!  Heaven  help  me!"  and  she  sate  down  and 
wept. 

The  drunken  man  lay  in  heavy  sleep,  almost 
like  death,  upon  the  low  bedstead  in  the  room, 
and  his  mother,  after  she  had  given  way  to  a 
paroxysm  of  weeping,  took  his  hat  from  the  floor, 
where  it  had  been  dropped,  brushed  it  neatly,  and 
placed  it  on  the  table,  and  then  proceeded  to  take 
off  his  shoes,  and  loosen  his  cravat — heaving 
bitter  sighs  the  while,  upbraiding  him,  and  be- 
wailing herself;  for  she  was  not  speaking  before 
witnesses.  When  all  this  was  done,  and  his  head 
laid,  as  she  thought,  easily  on  the  pillow,  she  left 

p  2 


162  REAPING 

him  with  his  clothes  on,  and  went  to  her  own 
comfortless  bed. 

Although  Mr.  Netley  was  prevented,  by  Rich- 
ard's caution,  from  discovering  him  at  that  time, 
he  did  not  lose  sight  of  his  quest.  To  an  idle 
man  like  him,  who,  nevertheless,  liked  to  be  busy, 
any  occupation  was  a  blessing;  and,  estimating  the 
high  principle  and  industry  of  Elizabeth  Durant 
as  he  did,  he  was  the  most  zealous  of  champions 
in  her  cause.  It  became  a  habit,  therefore,  with 
the  good  old  man,  to  go  to  town  three  or  four 
times  a  week,  merely  to  make  silent  observations 
on  the  drivers  of  hackney-coaches;  not  doubting 
but  if  Richard  remained  among  them,  he  would 
sooner  or  later  be  discovered. 

One  day  Mr.  Netley  was  walking  leisurely  up 
Bridge-street,  Blackfriars,  looking,  as  usual,  at  the 
stand  of  coaches.  One  particular  driver,  in  a 
long  drab  coat,  heavily  caped,  was  rubbing  the 
tarnished  door-handle  of  an  ill-conditioned  coach, 
when  a  tall  elderly  woman,  meanly  dressed  and 
meagre-looking,  crossed  off  the  pavement,  where 
she  had  been  standing  some  time,  and  slowly  went 
up  to  him.  She  spoke  to  him ;  he  still  rubbed  upon 
the  door  handle,  without  regarding  her,  and  then 
went  to  the  other  side,  where  she  followed  him. 
Mr.  Netley  also  crossed  the  street  at  the  same 
time,  partly  for  occupation,  and  partly  to  see  how 
the  two  went  on.  The  woman  continued  to  speak 
earnestly,  but  in  a  low  voice,  to  which  the  man 
replied  by  a  few  positive  words,  pushing  her  from 
him  at  the  same  time.  The  woman  became  more 
urgent,  and  the  man  more  angry,  and,  at  length, 


REAPING.  163 

dragging  down  his  whip  from  the  coach-box,  he 
seemed  to  menace  her  with  the  handle. 

"  Who  is  that  fellow?"  asked  Nehemiah  Net- 
ley,  from  a  waterman  who  stood  at  the  corner  of 
Bride-lane,  and  was  looking  on. 

"  The  greatest  reprobate  on  the  stand,  sir,"  re- 
plied he. 

"  And  the  woman?"  asked  Mr.  Netley. 

"  His  mother,  sir,  I  take  it,"  replied  the  water- 
man ;  "  they  often  quarrels,  I've  heard.  She  has 
a  sort  of  annuity  that  he  can't  get  hold  of — that's 
what  they  quarrels  about  mostly." 

"What  is  his  name?"  asked  Mr.  Netley;  but 
the  waterman's  answer  was  not  heard,  for  Mr. 
Netley  beheld  a  sight  which  roused  his  indig- 
nation, and  arrested  his  entire  attention.  The 
hackney-coach  driver  struck  his  mother ;  a  crowd 
rushed  up,  crying  shame  upon  him;  the  woman 
tried  to  avoid  the  blows,  but  the  man  was  tran- 
sported by  rage,  and  the  more  the  spectators  ex- 
claimed against  him,  the  more  violent  he  became. 
There  was  no  street-police  in  London  in  those 
days,  and,  before  a  constable  was  summoned,  the 
poor  woman  was  down  upon  the  pavement,  and, 
as  Nehemiah  Netley  himself  witnessed,  was  even 
kicked  by  her  brutal  son ;  by  which  means  she 
fell  down  the  steps  of  an  area,  and  was  taken  up 
insensible.  The  general  feeling  is  seldom  wrong. 
A  sentiment  of  execration  was  uttered  by  the 
whole  crowd  upon  the  inhuman  wretch,  who  now 
endeavoured  to  shake  himself  loose  of  the  angry 
populace  that  was  closing  upon  him.  The  spec- 
tacle, however,  of  the  body,  bleeding  and  insen« 


164  REAPING. 

sible,  seemed  to  restore  him  to  his  senses;  and  h« 
began  to  mutter  that  he  had  not  intended  so 
much;  but  that  her  temper  was  beyond  mortal 
endurance.  But  the  public  indignation  would 
not  admit  his  excuses — a  constable  was  at  hand, 
and,  by  order  of  all  the  bystanders,  he  was  taken 
into  custody,  and  hurried  away  to  Guildhall,  where 
the  city  magistrate  was  then  sitting,  attended  by  a 
large  crowd,  who  supported  the  ill-used  and  still 
insensible  woman,  as  evidence  against  her  son ;  and 
followed  by  many  most  respectable  witnesses, 
among  whom  was  Mr.  Netley,  all  impatient  for 
the  punishment  of  the  offender. 

It  was  not  until  she  was  placed  before  the 
magistrate  that  she  recovered  her  senses;  and 
then,  although  unable  to  move,  and  suffering  ex- 
cruciating pain — for  her  leg  was  broken  by  the 
fall — she  refused  to  complain  of,  or  even  to  admit, 
ill-usage  on  the  part  of  her  son.  The  utmost 
astonishment  filled  the  court,  and,  at  first,  she  was 
thought  to  be  raving :  but  she  was  firm  in  her 
assertion,  begging  earnestly  to  be  removed :  she  was 
ill,  she  said,  very  ill,  as  they  might  see,  and  she  had 
fallen  by  accident.  The  prisoner  she  admitted  to 
be  her  son,  and  that  he  had  been  angry;  that 
they  had  had  a  quarrel  in  the  morning,  but  he 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  striking  her.  In  vain  wit- 
nesses pressed  forward,  angry  at  her  pertinacity, 
to  bear  testimony  to  the  ill-treatment  and  blows 
which  they  had  witnessed.  It  was  all  mistaken, 
she  declared;  he  never  struck  her  when  she  was 
down ;  and  that  she  had  fallen  into  the  area  in  try- 
ing to  disengage  herself  from  the  crowd. 


REAPING.  165 

The  indiscriminating  many,  who  had  followed 
her  to  Guildhall,  impatient  to  avenge  her  cause, 
now  turned  their  anger  upon  her,  believing  her  to 
be  drunk;  but  those  who  understood  human  na- 
ture, saw  affection,  strong  as  instinct  the  mise- 
rable mother  would  not  criminate  her  son;  and 
they,  if  they  blamed,  pitied  her  at  the  same  time. 
The  son  stood  dogged  and  sullen,  turning,  by  his 
hardened  demeanour,  all  hearts  against  him ;  but 
since  the  injured  party  denied  any  charge  against 
him,  he  was  dismissed,  but  not  without  a  severe 
reprimand.  A  reprimand  was  also  given  to  the 
unhappy  mother;  but  she  did  not  hear  it.  The 
pain  of  the  broken  limb,  which  she  had  endured 
without  complaint,  whilst  her  son  appeared  in 
danger,  now  overcame  her  fortitude,  and  she  sank 
back  in  the  witness-box  insensible.  In  that  state 
she  was  carried  to  the  hospital. 

Such  was  the  deplorable  history  which  Nehe- 
miah  Netley  related  to  Elizabeth.  There  was  no 
doubt  who  the  parties  really  were ;  the  name  also 
was  given  as  Walker.  Early  the  next  morning 
Mr.  Netley  obtained  an  order  for  his  friend,  Miss 
Browne — for  it  was  considered  needful  to  conceal 
her  name — to  be  admitted  to  the  hospital.  The 
surgeon  said  he  would  allow  no  one  to  see  the 
patient  in  question,  for  she  was  in  extreme  dan- 
ger; but,  at  length,  won  by  Elizabeth's  earnest 
entreaties  and  tears,  he  yielded  so  far  as  to  allow 
her  a  distant  view  of  the  patient  in  bed.  What  a 
doleful  thing  it  was  to  look  along  that  line  of 
hospital-beds,  each  one  containing  its  unhappy 
and  suffering  tenant  I   How  much  more  doleful  to 


166  REAPING. 

discover  among  those  tenants  a  heart-broken 
mother !  It  was  not  easy  to  recognise  the  coun- 
tenance, pale  and  haggard,  with  sunken,  closed 
eyes  and  grey  and  matted  hair;  yet  the  recog- 
nition w"s  made.  Elizabeth  sank  upon  her 
knees,  where  she  stood,  and,  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  prayed  God  to  have  mercy  on 
them. 

She  took  lodgings  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
hospital,  that  she  might  be  near.  Fever  and  in- 
flammation seized  on  the  patient,  and  the  surgeon 
gave  but  slight  hopes  of  her  recovery.  Elizabeth 
could  only  be  admitted  for  a  short  time  to  the 
hospital  each  day,  and  was  only  allowed  a  distant 
glance.  It  was  too  little  for  her  affection.  Fe- 
male nurses  were  in  the  room,  and  from  their 
hands  her  mother  received  aid:  she  could  do 
more  for  her  than  any  of  these,  and,  with  tears 
she  besought  the  benevolent  surgeon  to  accept 
her  as  hospital-nurse,  that  she  might  be  present 
day  and  night  by  her  mother's  bed.  The  good 
man  was  moved;  he  had  witnessed  all  kind  of 
physical  suffering,  and  was  callous  to  it;  but  this 
devotion  of  filial  love  affected  him,  and  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  he  gave  his  consent,  on  one  condition 
only,  that  she  should  wear  a  common  dress  and 
linen  cap,  and  be  no  way  remarkable  to  the  eye 
of  the  patient;  and  also  that  she  should  not  make 
herself  known  to  her  mother,  without  his  per- 
mission. 

Elizabeth  bound  her  long  black  hair  up  tightly 
under  a  linen  cap,  assumed  the  most  humble  of 
garbs,  and  with  a  patience  and  tenderness  thai 


REAPING.  167 

never  was  surpassed,  waited  by  (he  bed  of  her 
mother.  The  fever  was  high,  and  delirium  came 
on,  and  tlie  frantic  words  of  the  poor  sufferer 
were  heart-rending:  now  appeals  to  her  son;  now 
terrors  of  his  detection  and  disgrace ;  and  then 
cries  for  mercy,  as  if  she  imagined  some  scene  of 
violence.  Fortunately  nobody  took  notice  of  her 
raving- ;  there  were  too  many  scenes  of  suffering 
constantly  occurring  within  those  walls,  for  indi- 
vidual cases  to  attract  attention.  Elizabeth  never 
left  her  mother's  bed-side;  and  at  length,  by  such 
tender,  incessant  care  as  hospital  patients  rarely 
receive,  had  the  satisfaction  of  learning  that  the 
worst  was  over,  and  if  the  patient  could  be  kept 
perfectly  tranquil,  her  recovery  might  be  hoped 
for. 

A  month  afterwards,  Mrs.  Durant,  who  was 
now  removed  into  a  convalescent  ward  of  the 
hospital,  was  waiting  anxiously  one  evening  for  an 
answer  to  a  letter  which  she  had  the  day  before 
written  to  her  daughter  at  Richmond,  informing 
her  of  her  sad  state  in  this  hospital;  and,  without 
mentioning  her  son  in  the  remotest  manner,  beg- 
ging that  she  would  come  and  see  her,  when 
Elizabeth,  in  her  usual  walking  dress,  entered  the 
room. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come!"  said  she,  holding 
out  her  hand  and  bursting  into  tears,  thinking 
instantly  how  different  was  the  ready  duty  of  her 
daughter  to  the  unkindness  of  her  son.  Elizabeth 
kissed  her,  and  sate  down  beside  her. 

''  Oh,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  find  me  here  I" 
6aid    the    poor    lady,    looking    sadly    into    her 


168  REAPING. 

daughter's  face ;  "  I  thought  to  have  spared  you, 
or  any  one,  the  knowledge  of  my  being  here;  but 
this  solitude — this  dismal  place — and  something  of 
suffering  beside,  have  broken  my  spirit.  I  could 
not  live  without  feeling  that  I  was  loved — and  I 
knew  you  would  not  fail  me." 
Both  mother  and  daughter  wept. 
"  You  are  surprised,"  continued  she,  after  a 
pause,  "  to  find  me  here.  But  do  not  ask  me 
the  cause;  ask  nothing  from  me;  only  let  me  see 
you  sometimes;  I  want  a  kind  face  to  look  at. 
You  would  have  come  before,  I  am  sure,  if  you 
had  known  what  I  have  suffered." 

"  Dearest  mother,"  returned  Elizabeth,  in  a 
calm  voice,  "I  have  been  with  you  before.  I 
was  with  you  through  your  worst  suffering.  I 
was  your  nurse — that  young  woman  in  the  white 
cap,  whom  you  thanked  so  gratefully." 

Mrs.  Durant  put  her  hand  into  her  daughter's 
without  speaking;  for  the  deepest  emotion  does 
not  leave  the  power  of  fluent  speech.  And  now 
all  the  kindness  and  thoughtfulness  of  that  niosi 
tender  of  nurses  was  perfectly  understood. 

In  a  few  seconds,  thoughts  which  might  have 
been  the  guiding  principle  of  a  life  passed  through 
her  mind,  and,  falling  on  her  daughter's  neck,  she 
kissed  her,  and  wept  tears  of  bitter  self-condem- 
nation. 


169 


CONCLUSION. 

If  Richard  inquired  after  the  health  of  his  mother, 
during1  her  abode  in  the  hospital,  the  knowledge 
of  such  inquiry  never  reached  her;  and  she  felt 
this  supposed  neglect  as  only  another  instance  of 
unkindness.  But  she  never  complained  of  him: 
if  she  had  not  decreased  in  affection  towards  him, 
she  at  least  had  learned  to  rest  upon  the  duty  and 
love  of  her  daughter. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  after  she  had  been  re- 
moved to  Elizabeth's  lodgings  at  Richmond,  when 
a  young  man,  of  remarkably  prepossessing  appear- 
ance, desired  to  have  an  interview  with  them. 
He  was  a  stranger  both  to  mother  and  daughter, 
and  declined  to  give  his  name.  His  manners 
were  very  mild  and  gentlemanly,  and  he  appeared 
to  feel  reluctance  in  stating  his  business.  At 
length  he  said,  Mr.  Anthony  Sharpie  had  dis- 
covered that  Mr.  Richard  Durant  had  not  perished 
in  the  fire  at  Stanton-Combe.  Mrs.  Durant  grew 
pale  as  death;  but  the  stranger  noticed  it  no 
further  than  by  speaking  in  a  tone  yet  more  gentle. 

"  He  was  sorry,"  he  said,  "  to  state  that  a  war- 
rant was  issued  for  his  apprehension,  under  the 
name  of  Walker,  the  driver  of  a  hackney-coach." 

Elizabeth  handed  a  glass  of  water  to  her  mo- 
ther, who  she  feared  might  faint,  and  apologized 
to  the  stranger,  on  the  plea  of  her  mother's  late 
suffering. 

"  I  am  influenced,"  said  their  unknown  friend, 
when   Mrs.  Durant  again  seemed   able  to   hear 

Q 


170 


CONCLUSION. 


what  further  he  had  to  say,  "  by  the  greatest 
possible  kindness  towards  you,  And  even  towards 
this  unhappy  young  man;  and,  to  confess  the 
truth,  have  had  repeated  interviews  with  him." 

"  Pray,  my  dear  sir,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Durant, 
"  where  is  my  unfortunate  son?" 

"  He  has  sailed  this  very  morning  from  Graves- 
end  for  Madras,"  answered  the  stranger. 

A  deep  sigh  escaped  from  the  mother,  in  reply. 
"  I  think  I  have  done  right,"  pursued  the 
stranger;  "  the  most  remorseless  pursuit  would 
have  dragged  him  from  any  concealment  in  this 
country.  I  had  the  means  of  knowing  every  step 
which  the  opposite  party  took.  I  was  the  only 
person  who  could  save  him.  I  have  done  it.  1 
paid  his  passage,  and  he  has  gone  from  England 
well  provided  for;  and  has  thus  an  opportunity  of 
retrieving  his  character,  and  regaining,  in  some 
measure,  his  station  in  society.  Let  me  know 
that  I  have  done  right." 

The  silent  tears  of  Elizabeth  and  her  mother 
were  his  answer. 

"  But  may  we  not  know  to  whom  we  are  so 
greatly  obliged?"  asked  Elizabeth,  as  the  stranger 
took  up  his  hat,  as  if  about  to  depart. 

"  I  doubt  the  favourable  effect  of  my  name,' 
said  he,  half  smiling;  "I  am  the  son  of  Sir 
Thomas  Durant;  permit  me  to  hope  that  I  have 
not  forfeited  your  friendship!" 


THE    END. 


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EB_ 


Howitt  - 


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